













































































✓ 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 





















THE 

FOREST OF FEAR 


BY 

ALFRED GORDON BENNETT 

it 

AUTHOR OF “THE VALLEY OF PARADISE” 


NEW YORK 

THE MACAULAY COMPANY 


?Z.i 

Oti 


Copyright, 1924 

By THE MACAULAY COMPANY 


©C1A807574 <L, 


Printed in the United States of America 


W O 


To 

GWENDOLEN EVANS-WILLIAMS 













CONTENTS 


BOOK I 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. East Side - - - - 9 

II. The Yellow Spider - - - - 13 

III. Revolt - - - - - 18 

IV. The White-washed Cellar - - 29 

V. Frangipanni and Vanilla - - - 35 

VI. Tea - - - - - - - 38 

VII. Beaumont - - - - - - 50 

VIII. The Moon-Path - - - - - 61 

IX. The Small Hours - - - - 69 

X. Vanda - - - - - 83 

XI. The First Threads - - - - - 91 

XII. Lee Wong ------ 104 

XIII. The “ Kettiwake ”.117 

BOOK II 

XIV. The Way There.131 

XV. The Forest of Fear ----- 135 

XVI. Lilian Moves ----- 152 

XVII. Ra.159 

XVIII. The Pool of Green Fire - 171 

XIX. At MacWhirter’s - - - - - 180 

XX. The Web in Being ----- 197 

XXI. Carnival ------ 214 

XXII. The Arc of Death ----- 227 

XXIII. Noon of Love.233 


7 


8 


CONTENTS 


BOOK III 


CHAPTER 

XXIV. 

Pacific 

- 

- 

- 

- 

PAGE 

247 

XXV. 

“ En Rapport ” 

- 

- 

- 

- 

260 

XXVI. 

Hobson 

- 

- 

- 

-■ 

265 

XXVII. 

Doom - - - 

- 

- 

- 

- 

270 

XXVIII. 

The Ghost Ship 

- 

- 

- 

- 

280 

XXIX. 

Great Beaumont 

- 

- 

- 

- 

290 

XXX. 

The Breaking of the Web 

- 

- 

- 

- 

293 

XXXI. 

At the Golden Gate 

- 

- 

- 

- 

301 

XXXII. 

Denouement 

- 

- 

- 

- 

309 

XXXIII. 

The Man from the Dead 

- 

- 

_ 

- 

311 


THE FOREST 


OF FEAR 


BOOK I 

I 

EAST SIDE 

Embracing three narrow and serpentine streets—Mott, 
Pell and Doyers—there exists in the heart of New York 
City, in an area less than one thousand feet square, a tiny 
fragment of the Flowery Kingdom. By day, down this 
trio of thoroughfares, the surge of normal life ebbs and 
flows: by night, there pad along the ill-paved sidewalks 
the mysterious Feet of another and an alien world . . . 
Strange Signs and Legends leer down upon the passers- 
by from every nook and space of the walls; black and 
gold, gold and red, the display boards of the various 
Stores, Shops and Arcades creak and whisper to the 
night wind messages the night wind knows to be, at least 
in nine cases out of ten, mere palpable lies—that 
strange genus of Bunkum which, in the Orient, does duty 
for publicity. At the base of the rickety stairway lead¬ 
ing to the Joss House of Mott Street, lean, silent men 
watch closely from out slant eyes set in yellow parch¬ 
ment masks; and over all, there broods the sweet un- 
definable odour of the Orient: the scents and spices of 
Cathay, and that strange, slumbering mystery which is 
the Soul of China. 

Almost in the centre of these streets there open to the 
world of men and women the two swing beaded doors of 
the Cafe Of The Green Dragon—an unobtrusive, non- 

9 


10 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


aggressive eating-house, old established and standing 
high in the public favour. No doubt if you have ever 
invested a dollar in a Sightseeing Trip to Chinatown, 
your guide will have pointed it out to you with that 
same degree of courtesy with which he indicated to your 
enraptured eyes the Wrigley Sign or the Flat Iron 
Building. You may even have passed through those 
ever-swinging, beaded doors and, greatly daring, par¬ 
taken of a Mushroom Chop Suey or Noodles Op Hoy 
Mein. I know not. But whether you be acquainted 
with the Cafe Of The Green Dragon or otherwise, you 
may accept the assurance of all Chinatown that it is a 
rare place wherein to obtain a good meal. 

Nor is its enviable reputation confined exclusively to 
the East-Side of the city. Upon Fifth Avenue and in the 
Bronx there are those to be found who are by no means 
unacquainted with its portals; whilst on Broadway I 
doubt if you could walk a hundred yards without brush¬ 
ing the sleeve of some individual or other who could, the 
spirit being willing, confide to you many facts concern¬ 
ing this rendezvous. Fortunately, however, for the pro¬ 
prietors of The Green Dragon hostel, the spirit of such 
individuals is seldom willing—very seldom. 

And why? Beloved, think you all the trade of the 
Cafe Of The Green Dragon is done in Mushroom Chop 
Suey and Noodles Op Hoy Mein? 

Think again. . . . 

Towards this Cafe, from the direction of Chatham 
Square, there came, one cold, clear night, as the clocks 
ticked-out the first seconds of the small-hours, two men. 

Noiselessly, the swing doors opened and gave them 
entrance; then as soundlessly swung to once more. 

Choosing a small bamboo table set in a remote alcove, 
they removed their hats, seated themselves, and rapped 
authoritatively for a waiter. 


EAST SIDE 


11 


“Gw Gang” said one man, softly. 

“Likewise,” remarked the other. 

The waiter glided impassively away to the nether 
regions at the far end of the apartment from whence he 
had emerged. The two patrons drew their bamboo 
chairs closer to the round-topped table and exchanged 
cigarettes. 

As he raised a match to the long slender roll, the man 
who had spoken first peered through large, horn-rimmed 
glasses at his companion and, addressing him in the 
same low, caressive tones, said: 

“You have the chart?” 

“Certainly”—tapping the vest pocket of his lounge 
coat. 

“Then,” the man wearing the horn-rimmed spectacles 
made reply—“then I have your assurance that no ele¬ 
ment of doubt exists respecting the whereabouts of this 
commodity in which we are both interested?” 

“None whatever.” 

“Good. Now rest content that, should our plans 
mature as we anticipate, my interest in your welfare will 
be considerably enhanced. . . . Boy, inform your 
manager that I would converse with him for a fraction 
of time.” 

The young Mongol waiter who had just laid upon the 
table two steaming bowls of Gui Gang —or Chicken 
Broth—bowed, and flitted away with that same sugges¬ 
tion of a complete physical obliteration which appar¬ 
ently characterized all his movements. 

The two guests fell to consuming their broth with un¬ 
disguised relish, and, as the minutes slipped soundlessly 
by, the little, low room with its softly-lit alcoves, its 
Oriental signs and decorations, its dragons and imita¬ 
tion silken pagodas, its odalisques and josses dotted 
here and there, became hazed with the blue streamers of 
cigarette smoke rising everywhere until, when the swing 


12 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


doors once more swept silently open to admit a tall 
young man accompanied by a slender, cloak-swathed 
woman, it was almost impossible to discern the faces of 
those who occupied tables remote from the entrance, 
and the two or three waiters swam like eerie phantoms 
about the hall: grotesque and intangible as figures 
meandering through a dream: or grave, dim-eyed Bod- 
hisattvas roaming the shadows of some sunk, red- 
lacquer Shinto Hell. 


II 


THE YELLOW SPIDEE 

Yen How, Mandarin of Peking, Manchu and Chief of 
The Broken Joss-Stick Tong , removed his horn-rimmed 
glasses and bestowed a benignant smile upon the wizened 
countenance of Tow Tung, the proprietor of the Cafe 
Of the Green Dragon. 

“It is well,” he observed in the pure Shansi mandarin 
of his fragrant home country, “that thy trade flourish- 
eth, O Aged Man of Wisdom, and for thy services much 
gold shall come thy way when the cards have all been 
played and the prizes won. In the distribution, thou 
shalt not be overlooked. ... Now go, and prepare for 
me a place where I may woo the dreams which are the 
special prerogative of our illustrious temperament!” 

The aged Tow Tung rose to his feet kow-towing 
decorously. 

“Thy command, illustrious Master, shall be instantly 
obeyed. May Gotama Buddha himself smile upon thee, 
thy grandchildren, and the supreme Ta Ch’ing!” 

“And plum-blossom blow above thy final resting- 
place,” smiled the Tong Chief. Then, turning once 
more to address his companion: 

“It is regrettable to have to state,” he murmured, 
“that I have perforce been compelled to engage the serv¬ 
ices of two men not of our own colour to help man our 
praiseworthy vessel.” 

“Diable! But that is a pity. And why so?” 

Yen How shrugged. 

“Our more than excellent countrymen are not 
adept at transmitting their voices through the void of 


space- 


13 



14 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


“A Wireless man? Of what nationality?” 

“As thou sayest, a Wireless man and also, curses be 
upon the gods, a First Officer—both British, and by 
name, respectively, Frederic Nettlefold and Felix Hob¬ 
son. My crew also includes a young Scottish Able Sea¬ 
man—MacWhirter; but he is of low birth, and a fool 1” 

“Is this, then, inevitable?” 

The Tong Chief crushed the smouldering stump of a 
cigarette between his lean, yellow fingers. 

“Quite. But tell me, Jacques, why dost thou exhibit 
consternation? Am I not wealthy, beyond the dreams 
of avarice? And is it not said that an Englishman will 
do aught for gold? But I forget yon are French and 
prejudiced.” 

The other regarded the suave, pock-marked face of 
the Oriental with green, expressionless eyes. 

“I am not prejudiced; why should I be? I hate the 
English dogs only less than the American. Both are 
fools.” 

Yen How fingered the soft velour hat he had tossed 
upon a vacant chair beside his own. 

“Surely China is the Mother of all Knowledge,” he 
smiled. Then, his gaunt, sallow face hardening until it 
became incredibly sinister and evil: 

“Should they chatter,” he said, “there are 
methods . . .” 

The Frenchman looked dubious. 

“The English know not fear. I have myself 
beheld-” 

“Cease, cease, Leturc, thou weariest me with thy 
objections. Thinkest thou that I can, by not taking 
puerile chances, afford to lose so magnificent a ship as 
the Emperor of Nanking? At least the English—dogs 
though they may be—can navigate the seven seas. But 
come, distressful one, I would accompany the excellent 
Tow Tung to the House of the Blood-red Poppy—per- 



THE YELLOW SPIDER 


15 


chance beneath the leaden fumes of cliandu thy mind 
will recover something of its ancient wit and devilry. 
Wouldst that thou had been in my service when thou 
wert still young. La! La! . . 

Rising, the speaker secured his hat and made his way 
out of the comparative obscurity of the alcove into the 
centre of the room—now almost filled with Chinese and 
that curious admixture of white men and women invari¬ 
ably to be found in such caravanserais as this: the 
night-owls of the city, forever restlessly wandering to 
and fro in search of prey: the casual and—usually— 
rather timid citizen ‘seeing life’: the rouged and 
scantily-clad members of that most sorrowful sister¬ 
hood in the world, attended by their lackeys: the pure 
Orientals, unostentatiously pursuing the even tenor of 
their existence, unmoved amid their alien companions. 

As the Tong Chief and his companion made their way 
to the quivering swing doors of the Cafe, not a few 
heads were turned in their direction—for, in truth, they 
made a curious and oddly assorted pair: the tall, al¬ 
most emaciated Chinese, clad in faultless Occidental at¬ 
tire, bearing a heavily mounted cane and moving with 
that lithe, feline grace at once peculiar to his race; and 
the stooping, grey-haired Frenchman—Jacques Leturc 
—forever scanning the world through two green, cat¬ 
like eyes ... an oddly assorted pair: sinister, wholly 
evil. . . . 

Only when he reached the door, had laid one hand 
upon its begrimed, moist lintel, was Yen How’s prog¬ 
ress arrested. A woman seated at a small table adja¬ 
cent to the steaming, curtained windows of the Cafe, 
without warning, fainted. Swift as an arrow speeds 
from the bow, the Oriental shot out an arm and caught 
her even as she swayed upon her chair. 

There was little disturbance: a curious glance or so 
in the direction of the table and the two who had, but a 


16 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


moment before, been apparently serenely seated at it 
enjoying their Suey Seen tea; for, in a resort such as 
this, women often swooned . . . though not necessarily 
from natural causes, as in this particular instance. 

Her companion, a sallow, sleek-haired young man, 
rather flashily attired in comparison to the woman her¬ 
self, sprang to his feet and bawled—in a voice marred 
by a strong foreign accent—for water. 

“Many thanks,” he said, dabbing her face with a 
large handkerchief. “You were just in the nick of 
time, son. Deuced hot place this joint. . . . Put the 
water there, boy. . . . She’s coming round. . . . 
Now, girlie . . . steady. . . . Take your hands off, 
laddie; I guess this is my job. . . .” 

He raised his head and regarded the rescuer blandly; 
then, almost by perceptible degrees, his face lost some¬ 
thing of its previous arrogance of expression, and he 
smiled—rather foolishly. 

“You certainly helped me some!” he avowed warmly. 

The Tong Chief nodded mechanical assent; his eyes, 
narrowed to minutest slits behind their preposterous 
lenses, seemed riveted—like those of some lustful, gloat¬ 
ing spider—upon the woman’s exquisite profile as she 
lay with her head resting against her escort’s black- 
sheathed shoulder ... a pathetically impotent yet 
dangerously alluring ‘Fly.’ . . . 

“Your lady friend,” he said softly, and in that cul¬ 
tured English bred only by a public school or Univer¬ 
sity apprenticeship, “is very, very beautiful. May I be 
permitted to congratulate you upon your discrimina¬ 
tion and discernment?” 

The younger man laughed. 

“Sure. She’s a jewel-” 

His voice broke abruptly as a small soft hand was 
pushed with astonishing force against his moist red lips. 



THE YELLOW SPIDER 


17 

“I hate you!” said the girl in his arms. “I hate 
you. . . . Oh, what have I done?" 

Roughly he bent and crushed his mouth against her 
own, smothering her with lecherous kisses. 

Yen How laid a hand upon his shoulder. 

“Fool!” 

The monosyllable, hissed with so incredible a venom 
in his ear, caused the stooping figure of the would-be 
paramour to straighten itself with a jerk. 

“Say-” 

The Manchu laughed: a grim, sibilant chuckle that 
caused Leturc—covertly observing the progress of this 
somewhat astonishing drama from a discreet distance 
—to shudder involuntarily. Then: 

“Did she not push thy hands away, insolent dog?” he 
snarled, his lean, impassive face contorted with passion. 
“Out of my way, before I strike thee down!” 

Dimly to their ears came the rush upon the linoleum 
as—now thoroughly aroused—the other occupants of 
the Cafe surged to join the group rapidly collecting 
about the little table. 

Brushing them aside with one sweep of his arm, the 
Mandarin lifted the now terrified girl high against his 
shoulder and strode towards the door. 

There ensued a babel of sound: the muffled protest of 
the almost shattered hinges: and then a paralysed si¬ 
lence . . . broken at length by the voice of Leturc, 
the green-eyed Frenchman: 

“ Sapristi! He is possessed!” 

And the hollow whisper of the wizened Tow Tung: 

“Verily the illustrious Son of Heaven hath forsaken 
the wisdom of his ancestors. . . . Praise be to the 
illustrious Son of Heaven!” 

Laughing heartily, the crowd returned to its revelry. 
Everyone enjoys a joke. 



Ill 


REVOLT 

“Cigar?” 

The tall grey-haired man, immaculate in faultless 
evening attire, and at once a singularly striking figure 
by reason of the ugly, leprous-white scar—like a sabre- 
cut—which disfigured his right temple, pushed the 
gleaming silver box across the smooth, inlaid top of the 
quaint Moorish table on which it reposed. 

The youngster lounging in the divan chair shook his 
head. 

“No, thanks; I’ve smoked myself to death this 
evening.” 

Gerald Randall carefully cut the end of the graceful 
torpedo he had himself selected, and: 

“So I perceive,” he smiled. “You are, if I may say 
so, permitting yourself to become too agitated over a 
mere trifle. Though you might not think it, my more 
than attractive niece is well able to take care of herself 
—even at the reprehensible hour of three a. m.” 

“It isn’t Vanda-” said the young man, raising a 

thin, well-manicured hand to the long fair hair combed 
carefully back from his high forehead. 

“I know—it’s Hussein ?” 

“Frankly, yes.” 

“You don’t like the fellow?” 

“I detest him 1” 

Randall smiled again, his keen humorous countenance 
crinkling until it became almost Puckish. 

“I know very little of him. I have seen his Operetta, 
of course.” 


18 


REVOLT 19 

“Ultra-modern and positively foolish. My young 
heart goes out to the Librettist.” 

“Vanda,” Randall observed to the cone of ash rapidly 
accumulating upon the end of his cigar, “thinks he is 
great —the coming composer: destined to revolutionize 
modern stage music, and so on.” 

“A musical pervert,” sneered the other. “Vanda, 
like all young girls, pursues the Present and quite over¬ 
looks the fact that there was ever a Past. In her school, 
Hussein, to-morrow, will be old-fashioned and out-of- 
date—mark my words.” 

“As a matter of fact I agree with you,” said Ran¬ 
dall. 

“By the way”—the figure in the divan chair hulched 
its rather drooping shoulders a little more: “By the 
way, why do you encourage her friendship with Hus¬ 
sein? You know that, actually, she is betrothed to me.” 

“I might retort by asking why you permit me to 
‘encourage her friendship,’ as you term it, in view of 
that fact?” 

The divan chair creaked audibly in the stillness. 

“Because,” pronounced its occupant at length, “I 
have decided that it is best for me to let her have her 
fling, as the vernacular has it. My one hope and prayer 
is that, if I allow her to speed for a while with her throt¬ 
tle full open, sooner or later she will run out of gaso¬ 
line 1 It may be a fool’s simile and a fool’s theory, but 
—it strikes me as worth trying, worth the risk. She 
has practically thrown aside your offer to complete her 
musical education in Europe; she has no overmastering 
ambition to enter the musical profession as a profes¬ 
sional ; she tells me that she prefers to ‘go some’ for a 
little while longer, and then she promises to marry me 
and settle down to what she is pleased to term a godly, 
sober and righteous life. But —and this is her vital 
point—she must see a trifle more of life before she be- 


20 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


comes stale, passe and lymphatic! Therefore, I have 
resigned the reins of her destiny entirely into her own 
little hands. One day—one day soon, please God—she 
will reach the breaking point. Life—the endless hurly- 
burly of pleasure-seeking: the perpetual orbit of excite¬ 
ment: the incessant whine and whirl of the merry-go- 
round—will pale. It will become nauseating, hateful 
. . . and she will turn, sick at heart, to the peace and 
tranquillity, the undying happiness of life in a home 
built by the eager hands of a man who truly loves her.” 

Randall regarded the speaker in silence, in his bright 
grey eyes a gleam of something almost akin to admira* 
tion. Then: 

“Your speech betrays you, Monte,” he laughed 
quietly. “You are a born weaver of words. At the 
same time I believe your reasoning is fundamentally 
sound. . . . Do try a cigar. . . .” 

The Weaver of Words stretched his long limbs and 
smiled in a manner at once so peculiarly reminiscent of 
Randall himself that an onlooker, by chance observing 
it, might have been excused for deeming them to be 
father and son, or at least closely related. 

“Caustic as usual, Gerald?” 

“Not so,” retorted the other, and turned swiftly, as 
the door opened almost soundlessly. Simultaneously, 
the chimes clock rang a brilliant quarter. . . . 

Towards them, there advanced slowly a young girl. 
In spite of her somewhat dishevelled appearance, and 
the tired features flung into almost brutal relief by the 
electrics overhead, it was at once apparent that she was 
strikingly beautiful. Small, almost petite , she yet moved 
with a superior grace: a motion rhythmic and poetic 
as the swaying of a ship’s sail, or the stirring of a 
young sapling when it trembles to the first caress of 
the dawn-wind. Her hair, wondrously golden, pos- 


REVOLT 


21 


sessed the elfin sheen of sunlight on a shaded pool; 
whilst her deep violet eyes looked out upon the world 
with the naive questioning of a child. 

But, this early morning hour, for all her beauty it 
was evident that she was well-nigh overcome with weari¬ 
ness: an exhaustion plainly as mental in its effect as 
it was physical, for, suddenly stretching out her bare 
arms to the two occupants of the great, book-walled 
room : 

“My God,” she said, in a voice that quivered piti¬ 
fully, “I’m through with New York! I—-I’m sick, sick 
of it all!” 

Randall removed his cigar. 

“Dramatic, my dear child; but incomprehensible. 
Will you not enlighten us further?” 

“You here, Monte?” she vouchsafed listlessly to the 
occupant of the divan chair, who had not so far visibly 
moved a muscle. Then, without waiting for the super¬ 
fluous reply: 

“Uncle Gerald, I’m going home,” she announced. 
“I’m going back to Charteris. I—I’m through with 
New York!” 

“And—er—Hussein?” queried Randall, darting a 
covert glance at the divan chair. 

She raised a hand to her soft, silken hair. 

“Yes,” she answered slowly; “and Hussein.” 

Monte Kilgour, novelist and critic, repeated the proc¬ 
ess of stretching his ungainly limbs. 

“ ‘Out of the mouths of babes-’ ” he began. 

She turned towards him; hesitated; then, suddenly 
leaning over the deep encushioned side of the chair, 
flung her arms about his neck. 

“Monte,” she cried, “Monte, you were right, you 
darling! He—he is a beast!” 

Kilgour drew her gently to his knee. 

“My dear,” he said, in a voice not quite so steady as 



22 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


was its wont: “My dear, I am glad you have found that 
out—they all are in your set. Believe me the White 
Way crowd are no use, no earthly, possible use; except, 
perhaps, to amuse and entertain us less vicious mem¬ 
bers of society. The Two Arts Club may be less ro¬ 
mantic, but—thank Heaven it’s safe. Don’t you sec¬ 
ond my motion, Gerald?” 

Randall nodded absently, his grey eyes fixed upon 
the golden head resting so securely, so easily upon 
Kilgour’s shoulder. 

“Yes, most heartily,” he affirmed. “Candidly— 
honest-to-blazes—though I am a bachelor, and, as you 
know, capable of enjoying myself just as thoroughly as 
anyone else, I loathe the so-called modernists who at 
present dominate the planet of the nation’s artistic life. 
I sigh for the downfall of Hussein, his Empire, and his 
satellites. At the moment we have the misfortune to 
move and have our being amid the Period of Revolt— 
revolt against all that is sane and wholesome and stimu¬ 
lating in Art; but the Period will pass . . . once, if I 
remember rightly, there was an Ice Age: the parallel is 
the same. 

“And now, Yanda, tell us what has happened.” 

The girl ran her fingers through her lover’s long 
hair. Randall, watching, experienced a sudden 
pang. . . . 

“We went to Chinatown,” she said simply. 

“And smoked nice potent Persian opium—is that it, 
Vanda?” 

“No, we only visited the Cafe Of The Green Dragon. 
That”—she laughed slightly—“was quite sufficient, 
thank you.” 

“We?” queried her uncle. 

“Reggie Hussein took me there.” 

“Dear old Reggie,” murmured Kilgour, soothingly. 
She shook his arm playfully. 


REVOLT 2$ 

“Be quiet and—listen. We went to the Cafe Of The 
Green Dragon and drank Suey Seen -” 

“Was that the best Reggie could do?” broke in the 
irrepressible Monte. 

“—drank Suey Seen tea, but I think he—Hussein— 
had been celebrating earlier in the evening, because 
when I fainted-” 

“Fainted?” Randall asked in alarm. 

“Well, not absolutely; you see, the room was very, 
very close and full of people : the atmosphere was dis¬ 
tinctly unhealthy: foetid. And when I collapsed he— 
kissed me!” 

“Not a wholly surprising thing to do,” added Ran¬ 
dall. 

“No—but when he repeated it, and—and grew 
beastly about it, and in a place like that--” 

“You bit his jugular and commanded the limousine to 
be ordered to the door immediately? Further—you 
commanded him to drive you home at once!” 

“On the contrary, I was driven home by another 
man.” 

“Presumably one of the party?” 

Vanda Hardie smiled; the obtuseness of the average 
male person is frequently amusing. 

“As it happens, a Chinaman!” 

Randall dropped his cigar upon the thick Ispahan 
carpet. 

“You mean to tell me-” he began. 

The Narrator held up one small, remonstrative finger. 

“I was rescued from Hussein by some wealthy Ori¬ 
ental who possessed a distinctly comfortable Packard 
automobile. I happen to know that it was distinctly 
comfortable because—you see—I was touring Broad¬ 
way in it less than thirty minutes ago. Moreover, my 
yellow-complexioned gallant picked me up in his arms 
in order to place me within that same automobile. To 






24 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


be absolutely candid, I was in a desperate funk. But— 
here I am. . . 

Her audience gazed upon her small, piquant face, 
speechless. Then: 

“The only really disturbing item on the bill was that 
he, too, insisted upon embracing me. In confidence,” she 
added, with an alluring smile at their perplexed faces, 
“I believe he thought once of kidnapping me himself! 
But I made rather a nuisance of myself, and he eventu¬ 
ally instructed the chauffeur to drive here. At the 
same time—put this in your Plot Book, Monte—I have 
a strong conviction that we shall hear of this gentle¬ 
man again!” 

She laughed, a silver ripple dissolving upon the 
smoke-laden air like a peal of very small, sweet bells. 
“I believe he has fallen in love with meP 

Randall stooped and picked up his smouldering cigar, 
which, true to its family traditions, had unostenta¬ 
tiously burnt a small, round hole in the thick pile. 

“Of course you secured the number of his automo¬ 
bile?” he snapped. 

The questioning violet eyes opened wide : 

“Certainly not. Didn’t he rescue me from what Monte 
would describe as a ‘fate too hideous for contempla¬ 
tion’? . . . Now, good-night; I’m going to my inno¬ 
cent white bed to meditate, and—mayhap—to pray!” 

With a low gurgle of laughter she snatched up her 
cloak and furs, blew her astounded interlocutors an airy 
kiss from the tips of her tiny pink fingers, and was gone. 

“Well, I’m damned!” observed Randall to the world 
in general. “You heard what she said, Monte? She’s 
sich of New York; and, reading between the lines, it is 
not very difficult to deduce that she is sick of Gerald 
Randall, too!” 

Kilgour—his recent efforts towards abstinence for- 


REVOLT 


25 


gotten in this new melee of circumstances—cut and lit a 
cigar, absent-mindedly opening and closing the chased, 
exquisite lid of the silver box. 

“I don’t think your deductions are correct,” he said. 
“This debacle is merely the typical outcome of a trail I 
have carefully laid for several weeks. It is the Revolt I 
prophesied barely an hour ago. She has suddenly real¬ 
ized the futility of the life she is at present leading as 
the idolized and pampered niece of a Wall Street Mag¬ 
nate—that is all. I am half inclined to think that a 
complete change of environment would be the very best 
thing in the world for her. Let her return to Charteris; 
let her get back to the primitive, and re-discover the 
lost art of living for a purpose. When she has, in a 
measure, found herself, I will marry her and bring her 
back into civilization again—if she so wishes.” 

He re-opened the silver cigar-box: “Confound it all, 
why shouldn’t I marry her now—to-morrow?” 

Randall coughed discreetly. 

“Don’t be precipitate. You will lose nothing by 
waiting a little longer; she is still a mere child, and you 
are not senile yourself. Besides, it might be advisable 
to have a heart-to-heart chat with Robert Hardie— 
these parson-fathers have their own ideas, you know. 
Personally, you realize I wish nothing more ardently 
than to see you two fix things satisfactorily. I am 
rather fond of my wayward little niece, and you—why, 
I’ve known you since you wrote lineage for the Times 
and dogged murderers for the Sunday newspapers!” 

Kilgour laughed, and the grey-haired financier went 
on: 

“Also, we must never forget that to-night’s outburst 
was but a small-hour mood; to-morrow she will be 
‘doing’ Coney Island with some greasy alien or other 
who tortures a Stradwarius and calls the torture ‘crea- 


26 THE FOREST OF FEAR 

tion.’ Or mouthing fatuities at a cinema Trade Show 
or Statuary Display in Greenwich Village.” 

The novelist smiled blandly. 

“Again, most excellent Theophilus, I find your de¬ 
ductions sadly in error. When Vanda makes up her 
mind—whether it be on the spur of impulse or after ma¬ 
ture consideration—she usually sticks to her decision: 
she puts the darn thing over, and thoroughly, too.” 

“You mean—you think she will return to Charteris; 
go back to her people; leave me ?” 

Kilgour nodded. 

“I certainly do.” 

Randall’s face grew bleak. 

“I should miss her. . . .” 

“You would. Let me see, for how many years has 
she made her home with you?” 

“God knows,” responded Randall. “I have educated 
her, trained her, coached her, cajoled her, emancipated 
her to what she is. . . . Heaven alone can tell what 
would have happened to them if they had been depend¬ 
ent upon their father. .... I got her sister Lilian 
prepared for College, and saw her through her medi¬ 
cal graduation. 

“I believe I told you how it was that I was enabled 
to play the part of Fairy Godmother to the poor little 
souls ? Their mother’s only brother, Rex Willard, was 
my greatest friend—my one intimate friend. I had the 
privilege of knowing him for but three years before he 
contracted the disease which, almost immediately, slew 
him. On his death-bed, he asked me to do what I could 
to aid his beloved sister, who was the wife of Robert 
Hardie and the mother of two children—two girls, one 
already on the verge of womanhood. 

“For a long while, I was at a loss to know exactly how 
best to keep my promise to my dead friend; and then, 
one day, I was struck with a sudden brilliant inspiration 


REVOLT 


27 


—I would educate these children and fit them to take 
their place in Society if—and when—such an oppor¬ 
tunity arose. But I had reckoned without the stubborn, 
obstinate pride which, always manifest in poor Rex, was 
magnified a hundredfold in his sister. For a long time 
Mrs. Hardie would not hear of my proposal, and I 
firmly believe she would have resisted to this day had I 
not conceived the idea of writing privately to her hus¬ 
band and begging him to use his influence to persuade 
her to consent. And, eventually, she gave in, and at the 
age of twenty-two Lilian came out to me from that lost 
and lonely South Sea island whereon her parents were 
compelled to make their home in order to spread the 
Faith they believed in amongst the less-enlightened of 
their fellow-creatures. I made Lilian, and I believe she 
grew, in time, to love her lonely ‘Uncle Gerald.’ But it 
was not until little Vanda came under my guardianship 
that I really learnt what the affection of a child can 
mean to a man saddened by the things of this world, and 
beginning—if only ever so slightly—to grow old. . . . 
God, Kilgour! How I should miss her now -” 

“Are they not very much alike then?” 

“Only in one respect: they possess more than their 
fair share of brains—like their mother.” The speaker 
lit a cigarette with hands that might, had they been a 
little less strong and capable, have trembled ever so 
slightly; then: “I have just remembered,” he continued, 
“that I met a missionary from Fiji —Viti Leva or some 
such island—the other day. A wonderful old fellow 
named Merwin. He happens to be an acquaintance of 
mine and, curiously enough, a colleague of Robert 
Hardie. He mentioned, now I come to think of it, that 
his leave was up in a month or so and he is returning to 
the Islands. In reality he ought to have retired fifteen 
years ago at least, but he confessed to me that, even as 
he has spent his life in the Islands, so, too, he will meet 



28 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


his God there when his summons comes. I have half a 
mind to entrust Vanda to his tender mercies, and send 
her ‘home’ just for a spell. ... I could do with a six 
months’ joy-trip in Europe myself.” 

He glanced sharply at Kilgour. 

“And what do you think you would do with your 
young life if I dispatched her half across the world, 
my son?” 

Slowly, Monte Kilgour’s lips curved to a whimsical 
smile. 

“I guess I should go, too,” he said. “I always prom¬ 
ised myself that one day I would make an effort to solve 
the mystery which has overshadowed my nights and 
days since early childhood. To do so would be an 
achievement no reviewer under the sun could butcher 
to make a Yankee holiday!” 

Randall inclined his head. 

“Ah,” he said gently, “I had forgotten. . , .” Then, 
almost wistfully: “How is it, Monte,” he asked, “that 
you have never confided this Secret of yours to me ? If 
you would tell me what the ‘mystery’ is, who knows 
but that I might be able to assist you to solve it?” 

“No,” retorted Kilgour; “I am deeply grateful to 
you, Randall, but—until I have made the effort myself 
—no man shall hear anything of it. If I fail, well 
then -” 


IV 


THE WHITE-WASHED CEI/LAR 

In Doyers Street, New York City, there existed, at the 
time of which I write, a shop. As a matter of fact there 
were quite a number of shops, but I am only concerned 
with one in particular. 

It was situated just a very little way down the right- 
hand side as one turned into the narrow thoroughfare 
from the heart of Chinatown, and you would recognize it 
because of the lamp standard erected right opposite the 
window, and the large rectangular sign which, flip¬ 
flapping and creaking eerily in the breeze, informed you 
in golden Chinese ideographs daubed upon a black 
ground that it was a *One Price Shop’—which, of 
course, was a lie: as are almost all Oriental adver¬ 
tisements. 

Beyond the lamp standard there was an alley run¬ 
ning at right angles to the main street. . . . 

It was a good and efficient shop this, serving its Age 
and generation faithfully and well. In it, one could 
purchase dolls and vases and lanterns. Also one could 
purchase Cantonese silks, sandalwood and lacquer 
boxes, flowers—real and artificial—and sugar-candy 
sweetmeats ... if you had chanced to know of a 
better shop you would have been well advised to go to it. 

Beneath this emporium, in a dirty white-washed base¬ 
ment, there met, as and when occasion demanded, the 
members of The Broken Joss-Stick Tong . . . * 

Herein then, one cool autumnal evening, perhaps 
some ten days after the events narrated in the last 
29 


30 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


chapter, there met together secretly the pock-marked 
Mandarin Yen How and his sinister, green-eyed myr¬ 
midon, Jacques Leturc. 

But the dark, starless night enfolding the vast un¬ 
sleeping Wonder City in a mantle of witching mys¬ 
tery was, for the nonce, destined to conceal no eerie 
gathering of the Tong men from the eyes of the curious. 

The business of the two conspirators, for such the 
muttered jargon of their colloquy might almost have 
proclaimed them to be, was of a purely private nature, 
and the Tong , in consequence of the Agreements reached 
in the year 1913, being now, in common with all its 
fellow-organizations, a purely Benevolent Protective 
Society, knew nothing whatever of that business. . . . 
The concerns of the illustrious Yen How were many and 
varied, and, if the truth must be told, but few were of 
an altruistic nature: and the welfare of his country¬ 
men was not invariably the emotion foremost in his 
heart. 

Removing his hat and horn-rimmed spectacles, the 
Chinese produced and lit one of his long, slender ciga¬ 
rettes. The Frenchman, seating himself at the solitary 
deal table occupying the centre of the dismal apart¬ 
ment, kindled to life the ragged stump of a cigar. 

On this particular night, it was manifest that the 
Mandarin laboured under the stress of an excitement as 
intense as it was alien to his nature. 

“Thou really meanest to assure me,” he exclaimed in 
quick yet perfect English, “that what thou hast told me 
is true? Thou art a wily fox, thy mentality is warped 
as the Camel Bridge in the Summer Palace of Peking, 
and I find it difficult to credit thy words !” 

Leturc laughed gutturally. 

“Perfectly true, my Master.” 

The Oriental’s slender, fluttering fingers toyed im¬ 
patiently with his spectacles. 



THE WHITE-WASHED CELLAR 


31 


“Didst follow my instructions faithfully—even to the 
final letter ?” 

“Even to the final letter, most praiseworthy Master.” 

“Then cease thy flowery mouthing 1 , and narrate to 
me in detail all that thou hast learnt concerning this 
fair, dreaming flower I fain would pluck!” 

The Frenchman’s heavy eyelids drooped wearily; 
then, in a low, metallic voice he commenced, monoto¬ 
nously, to speak. . . . 

“In accordance with thy eminently satisfactory in¬ 
structions,” he said, “I betook myself to the mansion 
wherein the Lily-girl, whose eyes have smitten thy soul 
with longing, dwelt. In the guise of a news-hunter—a 
journalist—I succeeded in obtaining speech with a 
maiden of low birth whose coarse-textured hands know 
the extreme felicity of touching the alabaster limbs of 
her whom thou adorest with so ardent a passion-” 

The other nodded curtly. 

“Proceed—proceed—and be brief, for I have much 
to perform before I seek my couch; and I am weary 
and sorely in need of sleep.” 

Leturc darted a faintly sardonic glance at his com¬ 
panion; then: 

“From this serving-woman, this maiden of low birth,” 
he continued, “I cajoled, subsequent to a little pleas¬ 
antry calculated to free her somewhat stubborn tongue, 
much information of a gratifying nature. Firstly, this 
highbred damsel upon whom thou hast bestowed the ex¬ 
treme honour of thy affections, is, in reality, no high¬ 
born lady, but the child of a teacher of the Christian 
religion labouring at present upon the sunny atolls of 
the Coral seas. My own astonishment when I learnt 
the surname of this divine was, as thou canst imagine, 
intense. And, by dint of careful questioning, I suc¬ 
ceeded in establishing beyond all possibility of doubt his 
identity.” 


32 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


“He is the Robert Hardie of whom we have oft-times 
spoken at length ?” 

Leturc bowed assent. 

“Assuredly—and that he should be stationed upon 
the island of which we have also had occasion to speak 
at length, almost revives in my breast an infantile be- 
lief in the wisdom of le bon Dieu /” 

Yen How waved a deprecatory hand. 

“Proceed; I would hear the story!” 

“It seems, then,” resumed the other, permitting him¬ 
self the vaguest suggestion of a smile, “that the maiden 
whose loveliness rends thy heart is about to return to 
her fathers island home for a space—being weary of 
New York and the life she is at present leading in the 
mansion of the wealthy American who has adopted her. 
By dint of further bribery—and it was well that thy 
foresight provided me with an abundance of dollars!— 
I obtained, when I visited the house the following even¬ 
ing in search of further ‘copy, 5 as they who scribble 
have it, full particulars of the journey la petite is 
about to make, from the time she waves ‘Adieu* to our 
city until she sets foot upon the silver sands of Char- 
teris Island. With these facts in our possession, my 
Master, the rest is easy. . . .” 

The Manchu rose, and, throwing aside his cigarette, 
produced a wad of paper and a pencil. 

“Now listen well,” he commanded. “On the same 
vessel which, according to the itinerary yonder fool- 
servant provided thee with, conveys the maiden to 
Honolulu you will make your reservation. Arrived in 
port, you will transfer immediately to the liner on which 
she will journey to Fiji—Suva. It is unfortunate that 
her guardian should have advised her to take the in¬ 
direct route, but as she purports travelling in the com¬ 
pany of the aged missionary you mentioned, this is 
inevitable.” 


THE WHITE-WASHED CELLAR 33 

The speaker jotted a hieroglyphic upon the wad be¬ 
fore him; then: 

“At Suva, the maiden will transfer to a vessel plying 
between that city and Apia, and from thence, I take it, 
by inter-island schooner or steamship to Charteris. Is 
my suggested programme accurate?” 

“Undoubtedly.” 

The Mandarin emitted a sibilant chuckle. 

“Then, most assuredly, the rest is easy. With regard 
to the actual details of the task entrusted to thee I will 
make thee familiar at a later date. But this I would 
say to thee now: secure beneath the waving palm-trees 
of yon Southern paradise, be content to play the jackal. 
Wait; watch; do nothing precipitate. When thou art 
ready—strike! And with the gods be the issue. High 
into the air have I thrown the joss-sticks, and each time 
have they fallen face uppermost. The omens, at least, 
are favourable. 

“Should, however, no facile plan of action open its 
doors wide to thy mind, there is a surer method. . . . 
In wedlock thou wilt gain thine end. . . .” 

Leturc shuddered as the soft words fell hissing on the 
dust-impregnated air; and: 

“On so lonely and forgotten an atoll there will be no 
one to say thee Nay,” the Mandarin continued. “By 
false marriage, if all else fail, thou must gain the maiden 
for me. And should the white dog, her father, prove 
obdurate—well, thou hast the means wherewith force 
can be applied. Spare him not, old fool . . . and 
when the fragrant Bloom he treasures so dearly be in 
thy possession, / shall be present also to receive her and 
fold her to my bosom! Be wary as the serpent, that, 
whilst my trusted followers wrest the green, burning 
secret from the depths of the Charteris hills, thy Master 
and Lord may bask in the eternal sunshine of his 
Beloved’s smile. Fail me —and this illustrious tongue I 


34 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


leash within my mouth shall freely wag to work thy 
downfall. Fast as the flight of homing birds, the sleuth- 
hounds ever lying in wait for all who transgress the 
laws of the white man shall leap upon thee; and thine 
end shall be swift and sure. . . 

Upon Leturc’s almost colourless cheeks the beads of 
perspiration glistened like drops of rain. 


V 

FRANGIPANNI AND VANILLA 

In the East Samoan—or Navigator—Islands, scattered 
like jewels upon a sheet of soft velvet, lie a hundred 
other smaller atolls—by way of Nassau, Danger, Vic¬ 
toria, and the Union group. Islands inhabited for the 
most part by peaceable, intelligent Polynesians: those 
care-free children of the sun. A brave, courteous, 
kindly people: half-barbaric, half-civilized. Gradually 
assimilating Occidental manners and customs, and emu¬ 
lating, however unsuccessfully, neocosmic progression. 

An open-air people: progeny of the white beaches, 
the coral reefs, the palm lands and the trade-winds; and 
in their way altogether as pleasing a genus of humanity 
as the average globe-trotter could hope to come across. 

Unfortunately, not so very, very long ago, they made 
an unpleasant practice of eating one another! 

Hence the advent of the missionary. 

In every quarter of the globe, from far Shan-tung to 
southernmost New Caledonia, you will find a mission¬ 
ary—and, usually, a Mission. All honour to both. 

The missionaries have not neglected the Pacific, 
though they might very well have done so. They are 
a courageous and persevering brotherhood. They have 
had their heads broken in the ‘terrible Solomons’; 
spurred, perhaps, by their pioneer, Joel Bulu, they have 
stopped tomahawks in Fiji; they have been pursued by 
proas among the Tonga Islands, and yet, in spite of all 
35 


36 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


let and hindrance, they have finally succeeded in tam¬ 
ing a large section of Oceania, and erecting some thou¬ 
sands of tin chapels and churches—all of which, remem¬ 
bering the annals of the grim and terrible pioneer past, 
is an achievement surely very creditable indeed. 

They have acted according to their lights and the re¬ 
sults are worthy of not a little commendation. Verily 
the religion of the Lord Jesus Christ can work wonders 
in the heart of a black man, or a brown; a Melanesian 
or a Polynesian! 

One large island—labelled on the map and classified 
in the Pacific Sailing Directory as ‘Charteris,’ in honour 
of its discoverer—of this picturesque and scattered 
colony stretching between lines 6° and 13° came be¬ 
neath the religious jurisdiction of Pastor Hardie. One 
neighbourly yet isolated remnant of a continent now 
sunk forever beneath the warm lapis-lazuli of the Pa¬ 
cific Ocean. An island heaved lazily to the surface of 
the waters during some age-old contortion of the earth’s 
crust: some vast, dim manifestation of cosmic energy 
straining at the leash of a diminishing vital force. 

Very, very beautiful were these islands: magical with 
the enchantment of the whole Island kingdom. Little 
dream-places set apart—little bizarre hiding-places 
from a world forgotten, and a myth. Redolent with the 
exotic odours of the tropics: luscious with the mingled 
perfumes of frangipanni and vanilla: drowsy with the 
oppressive heat of scorching noons: gay with the multi¬ 
coloured lamps of a firmament aglow for carnival: dark 
and eerie with the streaming, purple shadows of the 
palms and bush. . . . 

“Isles of wonder, fringed with coral, ring’d with shallows 
turquoise-blue. 

Where bright fish and crimson monsters flash’d their 
jewell’d lights and flew. 


FRANGIPANNI AND VANILLA 37 

Steeps of palm that rose to heaven out of purple depths of 
sea 

While upon their sunlit summits stirr’d the tufted coco¬ 
tree— 

“Isles of cinnabar and spices, where soft airs for ever creep, 

Scenting Ocean all around them with strange odours soft 
as sleep— 

Isles about whose promontories danced the brown man's 
light canoe. 

Isles where dark-eyed women beckon’d, perfumed like the 
breath they drew.” 

Infinite joy and infinite sadness were there; infinite 
beauty and infinite pain. 

Amid it all, Pastor Hardie led his people to their God. 


VI 


TEA 

Tea at the parsonage—or supper, as it was sometimes 
called in accordance with the lateness, or otherwise, of 
the hour—was a solemn affair, a momentous under¬ 
taking. It was a thing to look forward to all the day 
and every day. As a ceremony it palled not under con¬ 
stant repetition: though the ritual of it had become as 
standardized as an American automobile, it lacked not 
an intriguing and engendering fascination. The sound 
of the rather tinny chimes-gong was as a signal to the 
dead, for it awoke the slumbering inhabitants of the 
rather squat little bungalow to active and anticipatory 
existence. The gong-note spelt tea: tea, discussion and, 
possibly, controversy: controversy, relief from the su¬ 
preme, utter and absolute monotony of life on a South 
Sea island. 

And it is just as this somewhat unmusical summons 
reverberated through the bungalow occupied by the 
Hardie family, at about four o’clock on a blazing tropi¬ 
cal afternoon in the year 19—, that my chapter 
opens. . . . 

Lilian Hardie flung back the mosquito-curtain, 
stretched herself indolently, and clambered off the low, 
trestle-bed on which she had spent the afternoon perus¬ 
ing Ann Veronica. She closed the novel with a regret¬ 
ful sigh, and, crossing to the shuttered window, opened 
wide the green laths and gazed out vacantly upon the 
luxuriant panorama of land and seascape that had, with 
38 


TEA 


39 


the passage of time, become so essentially a part—an 
intimate, personal part—of her that, with closed eyes, 
she could have pointed out the various objects of inter¬ 
est visible to a sightseer. 

“I wonder,” she said, half to herself, “I wonder if— 
if I could have done that?” 

The relevance of the remark was not immediately 
apparent; her next whispered musing showed her fem¬ 
inine mind to be still pondering the works of the aban¬ 
doned Mr. Wells. 

“Ann Veronica’s love was purely sensual,” she said. 
“I am not sensual: I could not have done that!” 

A psychologist overhearing the remark might, pro¬ 
viding he knew his art, have deduced many things from 
it. To her most intimate acquaintances, it would in one 
flash as it were have typified her whole character. There 
was no striving after self-delusion in this white-faced, 
thin-lipped young woman. Essentially, she knew her 
limitations, could estimate her emotions—and she was 
not given to emotions—to a hair’s breadth. The Ann 
Veronica of the English novelist’s story was a creature 
of passion and impulse. Impulse was an unknown ele¬ 
ment to Lilian Hardie; passion a terrible, little-talked- 
about phenomenon: sexual passion a thing to be ab¬ 
horred, shunned. That passion was an exaggerated 
form of enthusiasm she could not comprehend; the only 
enthusiasm she had ever experienced had been a dis¬ 
torted kind of religious fervour: a contagious disease 
contracted primarily from her father. At the same 
time, Ann Veronica, as a personality, was interesting, 
her experiences an excellent anodyne to counteract the 
insidious, nauseating influence of life in a puritanical 
Garden of Eden that was rather annoyingly devoid of 
serpents. 

She washed, tidied her hair and changed her rather 
severe morning-frock leisurely, gyrating slowly before 


40 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


the cheap cheval mirror much as a modern society- 
woman might have done in far New York or London. 
She was not beautiful; but her height, together with a 
curious grace of bearing, lent her a rather surprising 
air of distinction. 

Her features trended towards the cubist, while a 
certain smallness of the chin and a tightness about the 
corners of the lips conveyed an expression of pertness. 
Her hair was brown, straight and lustreless; her eyes a 
pale, insipid grey. She looked, in fact, just what she 
was: an intensely moral and capable young woman of 
thirty-two. . . . 

Footsteps sounded down the wooden floor of the cor¬ 
ridor outside. With a quick, deft movement of her 
hands she slipped Ann Veronica into a half-open drawer. 

“Lilian! Lilian! Did you hear the gong?” 

She closed the drawer. 

“Yes, mother. Just coming.” 

The door opened and Mrs. Hardie, small and bird¬ 
like, fluttered in. At first sight it seemed incredible that 
she could be the mother of the younger woman. Petite , 
dainty, and with a faded face that had once been very 
beautiful, she was the direct antithesis of her daughter. 
It became apparent that she was labouring under the 
stress of a great excitement. 

“What do you think ?” she cried. 

“All sorts of things,” replied the imperturbable 
Lilian, quietly pushing home a slide intended to keep in 
check a wayward strand of hair. 

But Mrs. Hardie, who from childhood had possessed 
a keen sense of the dramatic, was not to be outdone. 

“A letter !” she proclaimed triumphantly. “There is 
a letter!” 

“About those new lamps father is ordering for the 
school—those brass ones with double wicks ?” 

“Lamps? Fa- I didn’t know father was order- 



TEA 


41 


ing any new lamps. Why didn’t he tell me about it?— 
Brass ones are so expensive-” 

“Oh, we fixed it all up three or four weeks since,” 
retorted Lilian airily. “I thought we had better order 
good ones while we were at it.” 

Her mother sighed. Many, many years ago, in the 
early days of their missionary life, her husband had 
made a practice of consulting with her and seeking her 
advice upon the smallest and most trivial details con¬ 
nected with their labours on behalf of the religion they 
strove so faithfully to spread through their own par¬ 
ticular group of islands. In those days, Lilian had 
been a tiny, wide-eyed little person, content to drowse 
away the long hours sprawling on the verandah of their 
bungalow, or playing complicated games with coco-nuts 
and a set of highly coloured skittles. Then, almost un¬ 
expectedly, she had grown up. She had emancipated 
into an inscrutable yet fervent advocate of the Gospel. 
She taught in the Mission-school, and delivered abstruse 
lectures—largely scientific. She even became conversant 
with an elementary kind of theology, and, at twenty- 
two, she had at her father’s instigation left the Islands 
to take a graduate course in medicine at a States uni¬ 
versity, Gerald Randall having kindly stepped forward 
in the capacity of financier. 

Six years later, she had returned to Charteris fully 
qualified to preside over a small yet undeniably complete 
Dispensary; to throw herself whole-heartedly into the 
work of the Mission; and to act, in every way possible, 
as her father’s aide-de-camp: a position which she filled 
admirably ... for she was an intensely moral and 
capable young woman. 

“Well,” she said now, as she stood facing her mother, 
“if that letter is not about the lamps it must be from 
Uncle Gerald.” 



42 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


Mrs. Hardie laughed quietly. Occasionally it pleased 
her fancy to tease her clever, impatient daughter. 

“Wrong again. It’s from Vanda!” 

“Vanda?” 

“Yes. The Rhoda called yesterday with the Mail, it 
seems; but the post-boy is ill. Your father has just 
brought it up with him from the offices.” 

“Have you read it?” 

“Yes.” 

“Any news?”—sarcastically. 

“A little more than usual; you had better glance 
through it.” 

Lilian stretched out her hand for the envelope, across 
which sprawled an almost indecipherable address. 

Vanda was her sister, and twelve years her junior. 

When she had finished reading: 

“What does this mean?” she asked, her pale eyes 
wide with astonishment. “Has she left New York?” 

“Apparently. She is coming out with the Merwins. 
It’s all terribly upsetting. Do come along—your father 
will be waiting for us l And—Lilian—there’s a tiny 
slip of camisole showing—just behind your blouse—you 
don’t mind my saying anything, do you, dear? But you 
know your father is so particular. . . . Do come 
along. . . 

Tea was served on the verandah which ran the length 
of the bungalow, commanding an exquisite and enchant¬ 
ing view of the island; the bungalow itself being situated 
on the side of a lofty peak which, together with a com¬ 
panion peak of lesser height, at once singled out this 
atoll from its plane and less-volcanic fellows. 

The parsonage was considerably over an hour’s walk 
from the shore, and the steeply-rising wooded ground 
made any but the natives pause and think thrice before 
essaying a journey thither—whether of a social or pro¬ 
fessional nature. Down in the valley at the foot of 


TEA 


43 


the mountain clustered the rude huts and bungalows of 
the native village; whilst, further ahead, the vegetation 
—jungle-like in its wealth, and colour, and infinite vari¬ 
ety—gave way to greensward and rock, and so eventu¬ 
ally to dazzling beach and a shimmering glimpse of 
purple, palm-fringed lagoon. 

From the parsonage verandah one could just discern 
the long wooden quay, and adjoining it the squat row 
of offices and stores in the vicinity of which the busi¬ 
ness of the island was transacted. 

Almost directly below the parsonage, on the first of a 
series of terraces that ranged the mountain-side, and in 
the centre of a group of bungalows, stood the aggres¬ 
sive, corrugated-iron Chapel, its galvanized whiteness 
triumphantly assaulting the vision, and its stumpy, 
belled tower proclaiming it beyond all shadow of doubt 
a house of God. A little to the right of the Chapel, 
standing with a peculiar air of isolation in its own 
grounds, was the distinctly imposing bungalow of the 
Administrator—one Beaumont, an American, who said 
little and thought a lot. From a tall pole erected at 
one side of this bungalow, a large Stars and Stripes dan¬ 
gled forlornly, a vivid splotch of colour against its 
white walls. 

When Lilian and her mother emerged on to the 
verandah, they found Mr. Hardie already seated at the 
table and gazing abstractedly over the white balcony- 
rail towards the shore. A£ the sound of their footsteps, 
he turned expectantly. 

“Good afternoon, Lilian. Have you heard the news?” 

Lilian drew forward her chair. 

“I have read the letter—yes.” 

Hardie accepted a cup of tea from his wife. 

“Of course,” he said, rather heavily, “she has only 
anticipated my intentions ... at the same time, it is— 
er—disturbing.” 


u 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


“Yes,” replied Lilian, reaching for the cut pineapple. 
The Pastor sipped his tea thoughtfully. His appear¬ 
ance was singular; he was essentially a man you would 
look at twice. He was very tall, with immensely long 
legs that gave you the impression of being almost con¬ 
stantly entangled together. His face was refined and 
scholarly, curiously wistful or curiously strong—it was 
impossible to say which. His eyes were a kindly blue, 
and his hair, which he wore rather long, a clear silver. 
He made an impressive figure there at the tea-table, 
sprawling back in his chair, his legs crossed. . . . 

“She is coming out with the Merwins,” he said. “I 
know Merwin—splendid old fellow—helped to make Viti 
Levw in the first days of the British administration. I 
wonder how she got hold of him ?” 

“She’d go to Headquarters,” his daughter explained. 
“She’d look up our district, find out the missionaries, 
and then discover whether anybody was on leave. The 
whole thing’s perfectly simple.” 

“But a girl of her age-” interposed Mrs. Hardie 

nervously. 

“Should be able to take care of herself!” said Lilian 
sharply. “Unfortunately Yanda is rather a fool. We 
have to remember that. 99 

“I do wish you wouldn’t speak so unkindly of your 
sister, Lilian,” her mother protested. “After all, every¬ 
one cannot be expected to be endowed with your sa¬ 
gacity. We have to remember that, you know.” 

Lilian’s cheeks flamed dully at the well-merited cut. 
Mr. Hardie changed his tactics. 

“I wonder what boat she will come on,” he observed, 
with the ostentation of one who seeks to make light con¬ 
versation. “It seems evident that she will have to travel 
alone from Suva to Apia—Merwin’s chaperonage, of 
course, ends when they reach the island where he is 
stationed—but the Union steamers to Apia are very well 



TEA 


45 


managed and comfortable. From Apia, she will take an 
inter-island schooner—the Rhoda , I expect, because she 
is our regular Mail boat.” 

“I detest the schooners. You find such horrible peo¬ 
ple on board,” his wife demurred. “And Vanda is so 
pretty, too. It wouldn’t matter if she were more like 
Lilian. Lilian-” 

“Mother,” broke in the Pastor playfully. “What¬ 
ever are you saying?” 

Mrs. Hardie winced as she detected the cold gleam 
in her daughter’s eye. Somehow she always seemed to 
be doing the wrong thing, hurting somebody’s feelings. 
. . . Life was very, very difficult. . . . 

“I only meant, of course, that Lilian is so—so self- 
possessed ; so self-reliant and—and capable. Dear me, I 
wish you two would let me say what I want to say! 
I—I hate being perpetually pulled up!” 

“I never spoke,” smiled Lilian sweetly. 

“I never said you did, dear. I’m sorry if I hurt your 
feelings. Perhaps if father had never interfered you 
would not have noticed-” 

“Peace. Peace,” laughed Hardie. “When will you 
ladies realize that life’s too short for quarrelling?” 

“We’re not quarrelling,” objected Lilian. “I don’t 
know why mother will persist in referring to things that 
are past and forgotten.” 

“I only said I was sorry if I had hurt your feelings, 
dear.” 

“Well—you haven’t hurt my feelings, so don’t let’s 
talk about it any more, please.” 

Mrs. Hardie bit her lip, devoutly trusting that they 
would not notice the hot, resentful blood that had 
rushed, despite her every effort to keep it in check, to 
her cheeks. 

Apparently they did not, for the Pastor’s next re- 




46 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


mark showed him to be pursuing a new and rather typi¬ 
cal train of thought. 

“It is largely a question of individual morality,” he 
said. “Place an admittedly immoral man or woman 
amid immoral surroundings and in the company of 
other immoral men and women, and—environment will 
prove irresistible. Their actions, thoughts and speech 
would inevitably become unchaste. 

“On the other hand, place a highly moral man or 
woman in a similar environment, and you will almost 
certainly find that they will continue to remain chaste, 
moral. 

“Lastly, take an unmoral man or woman—one who 
is, so to speak, moving along a neutral plane; or who 
has not yet lived long enough to lay the first good or 
bad foundations of life, well—the balance may tip either 
way: the situation is a double equation. 

“Vanda ranks in this category. She is a young and 
innocent girl. She may live high; she may go wrong. 
She may choose the Straight and Narrow Path; she 
may deliberately walk the Broad Highway. But—and 
here lies the crux of my argument—because she is my 
daughter, because she is flesh of my flesh, blood of my 
blood—she must have a strong bias for the Right . . . 
the balance-pan must be ever so slightly tipped already. 
Therefore I have no fears for her: there is no need for 
us to distress ourselves. Besides, we have forgotten 
Merwin!” 

He laughed softly. 

“Merwin, I fancy, will keep an eye upon her. And 
Mrs. Merwin, too.” 

“Which is Mr. Merwin’s district, Robert?” 

“I’m not quite sure; somewhere in the North of Viti 
Levu, I imagine. Two or three hundred miles from 
Suva, perhaps—though I really don’t know. I’ll look 
it up later. Another cup, please.” 


TEA 


47 


“I do wish she would have taken my advice and 
adopted a musical career. You know Gerald said he 
would have her educated abroad—Paris—Milan—any¬ 
where. He positively raved about her playing when 
we were over last leave.” 

The Pastor smiled. 

“Gerald Randall is a man of enthusiasms,” he said. 
“He ‘positively raves* over anything. I have seen him 
behave as one demented simply and solely because he 
has chanced to espy a particularly aggressive and vivid 
pair of socks in a tailor’s window. Moreover, he is a 
rake!” 

The others laughed. 

“Remember—he was my brother’s best friend,” con¬ 
tinued Mrs. Hardie, shaking an admonitory finger at 
her husband. “And is the most successful financier 
in Wall Street.” 

“Don’t misunderstand me,” he assured her. “In 
spite of his eccentricities I admire him profoundly. Be¬ 
sides—he has educated our children. Am I likely to 
forget that? We owe Gerald Randall a debt which we 
can never hope to repay!” 

“Personally,” remarked Lilian, with the particular 
air of superiority that so exasperated her mother, “I 
think ‘Uncle’ Gerald is rather fast. I know he was 
hardly ever at home in the evenings when I spent my 
vacs, there. And , whilst we are talking about him, can’t 
either of you tell me how he contrived to get that fero¬ 
cious scar on his forehead? It always makes me wildly 
curious whenever I see it, and every time I ask him to 
tell me about it he laughs, and says he doesn’t know 
how he got it himself! In my opinion, there’s some 
dark mystery in ‘Uncle’ Gerald’s Past. . . 

“You silly child!” said her mother, ignoring the 
question. “If yovt> were a bachelor—a very popular 


48 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


bachelor—would you spend all your evenings at home 
with your housekeeper, Lilian?” 

“I rather admired Miss Cooper myself. I thought 
she was most refined.” 

“Oh, I’m not individualizing. It was the theory of 
such a proceeding to which I was alluding, not the prac¬ 
tice of it. Though, as a matter of fact, I detest Miss 
Cooper ... I can’t think why Gerald keeps her so 
long ... let me see, she’s been with him four—five— 
seven years now. Personally, I have never understood 
why those two love affairs of his fell through.” 

“We seem to be wandering away from the matter in 
hand,” observed Hardie, producing a charred briar 
pipe and commencing, very slowly, to load it. 

A native boy appeared from nowhere. 

“You can clear the table, Mauki,” said Mrs. Hardie. 
“Lilian, will you bring the latest Report Book from the 
study—I want to find out just where Mr. Merwin’s dis¬ 
trict lies.” 

“Certainly, mother.” 

As Lilian passed through the open French window 
into the house, Mrs. Hardie said to her husband: 

“Perhaps Vanda’s coming will cheer Lilian up a 
little.” 

“I was not aware that she needed cheering up,” he 
replied, blowing smoke heavily through his nostrils. 
“Does she?” 

“She certainly seems very depressed at times. After 
all, Robert, this life of ours must be a dreary business 
from a young girl’s point of view.” 

“Hardly young,” he laughed. 

Mrs. Hardie sighed. 

“No, you are right. That is the tragedy of it. . . . 
Oh, Robert, I don’t want that other child’s life wasted, 
too!” 

His eyebrows rose. 


TEA 


49 


“Wasted?” 

She fiddled with a frangipanni-leaf that lay along the 
verandah rail. 

“Well, you know what I mean. • . 

His face softened. 

“Yes, I think I do,” he said. 

Lilian, carrying in her hands a bulky, open volume, 
came out on to the verandah. 

“I’ve looked up Mr. Merwin’s district myself,” she 
announced, with a little ironical smile of triumph. “It 
is considerably north of Suva. Vanda will have several 
days of solitary voyaging, mother—and one or two will 
be spent on the Rhoda .” 

Mrs. Hardie gestured weakly. 

“Alone? Robert—you must go and meet her. We 
can’t hear of such a thing. ... You know what these 
inter-island schooners are. Why, she may be the only 
woman on board!” 

“I shall do nothing of the kind,” he retorted 
brusquely. “Ohlson, the Captain, will keep a weather- 
eye on her. I must admit that I don’t like the fellow; 
but he’s a first-rate seaman. Besides, the voyage will, 
as a matter of fact, only last some thirty hours, and 
there are sure to be other passengers. Lepmann, for 
instance, is over in Apia now—he may return with the 
next mail. Let the girl find her feet-” 

He broke off short. 

“Hello; I can see Beaumont coming up the path. 
Now I wonder what he wants. . . . Perhaps he’ll stay 
to supper. Eh, Lilian?” 

His daughter slammed the Missionary Report Book 
on to the table—hard. 



VII 


BEAUMONT 

When Howard Beaumont, grim and angular, and 
puffing slightly after the exertion of his climb, arrived 
at the parsonage, he found Lilian reclining in a large 
basket-chair in the porch reading a slender, blue volume 
of sedate and unassuming appearance. 

“ ’Afternoon, Miss Hardie,” he hailed her cheerfully. 
“Is your father at home?” 

“Oh, Mr. Beaumont. Why, you gave me quite a 
fright—I never heard you until you spoke.” 

Which was a lie. 

Beaumont, who could read character with the same 
facility as he could read a novel, grinned broadly. 

“Awfully sorry. I’ll buy one of those automobile 
hooters so’s to be able to give you warning of my 
approach. How’ll that suit you?” 

“You are silly,” she bantered him, and: “In any case 
you wouldn’t have to use it so very often, would you?” 
she said. 

“Which is only another way of saying ‘Why don’t 
you come and see us more frequently?’ ” he laughed. 
“Am I right?” 

“Perhaps you are,” she murmured. 

The Administrator, who was forty-five and looked 
ten years younger, glanced down at his immaculate 
white flannels. 

“It cuts both ways,” he smiled. 

She indicated a vacant rattan chair close by her own. 

“Sit down, please,” she said. “I want to talk to 
you.” 


50 


BEAUMONT 


51 


He complied meekly, and extracted a silver cigarette- 
case. 

“Try one?” 

She glanced at the slender white rolls, then half- 
nervously over her shoulder. She nodded her head. 

He selected a cigarette and very deliberately placed 
it between her lips. She watched him strike a match 
and hold it for her. 

“Am I very wicked?” she asked, blowing a slender, 
curling plume of smoke into the still, hot air. 

“Yes,” he agreed complacently, “you are very wicked. 
The contemplation of your misdeeds fills my waking 
hours with horror!” 

She laughed, a shade hysterically. 

“Mr. Beaumont, have you heard the news ?” 

“Ah! I see you have.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well—my visit must have been anticipated.” 

“I don’t understand,” she said, shifting slightly in 
her chair. “I was referring to my sister—Vanda.” 

He removed his cigarette. 

“Apparently we are at cross-purposes. Let me see 
—Vanda? I have heard you speak of her frequently. 
Rather a beauty, isn’t she ?” 

“Quite pretty. Nothing classic, you know. Just— 
attractive.” 

“The world has a penchant for attractive people,” 
he said philosophically. “It is better to be just at¬ 
tractive than classic, nowadays, Miss Hardie. Well, 
tell me about her. What has she done—eloped with a 
half-caste; run away from College; gone on the stage?” 

“She’s coming out to the Islands,” said Lilian flatly. 

Beaumont sat up, and flicked the ash from his 
cigarette. 

“Ah!” he said. 


52 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


“It is all rather disturbing,” continued Lilian, uncon¬ 
sciously plagiarizing her parents. “You see, she’s so 
young—only twenty.” 

Beaumont did not speak. 

“Of course,” she went on, “she would have joined 
us here in a few years. She would probably have re¬ 
turned with us after the next vacation; in fact father 
had agreed to that long ago. But she has taken mat¬ 
ters into her own hands—she is coming out with the 
Merwins as far as Fiji. We have just received a 
letter .” 1 

“Merwin? The missionary?” 

“Yes.” 

“Bravo! Good girl!” commented Beaumont. He 
rose: “Why, here’s the padre. Good afternoon, Mr. 
Hardie; just been hearing about your little daughter. 
Some pluck, what?” 

Hardie removed his pipe. 

“Good-afternoon, Mr. Beaumont. I should think 
you’re tired after your walk—no? Lilian, get Mr. 
Beaumont something to drink, there’s a good girl.” 

Lilian raised herself slowly. 

“Let me help,” cried Beaumont, and with a quick 
jerk pulled her to her feet, slipping an arm round her 
waist to steady her. 

She laughed, breathless. 

“You are strong. Oh, my cigarette!” 

She stooped to rescue it, but, on the instant, the 
Pastor’s foot slid over the smouldering stump, ruth¬ 
lessly crushing it into the dust. 

“I have a rooted objection to your smoking, dear,” 
he said. “Don’t let me have to remind you of the fact 
again.” 

Lilian’s face flamed. She turned appealingly to the 
American. 


BEAUMONT 


53 


“Don’t you think that is a very old-fashioned pre¬ 
judice?” she queried. “Won’t you take my part, Mr. 
Beaumont ?” 

“Willingly,” he assented. “But if Mr. Hardie dis¬ 
approves-” 

“But I’m thir-” she checked herself abruptly. 

“I’ll fetch you something to drink,” she mocked, and 
was gone. 

Beaumont, feeling a trifle foolish, reseated himself. 

“An occasional cigarette,” he observed genially, 
“won’t do anyone any harm. Surely you’ll allow that, 
Mr. Hardie?” 

“On principle, I object to women smoking,” said 
Hardie. 

The younger man crossed his legs. 

“Nonsense, sir,” he said. 

“Possibly, but that does not alter my objection.” 

They were silent until the reappearance of Lilian with 
a tray, glasses, and a kava bowl afforded a welcome 
intrusion. Beaumont, with a sly wink at his hostess, 
produced his cigarette case and handed it to the Pastor. 

“No, thank you. I prefer a pipe.” 

Beaumont lit one of the cigarettes for himself. 

“Events,” he said, “never happen singly, do they?” 

“You mean-?” 

“I was thinking how curious it was that we should 
both be on the point of receiving visitors—distin¬ 
guished visitors, too.” 

They regarded him with surprise. He commenced 
fumbling in his pocket, and produced a rather dilapi¬ 
dated letter-case, from which he extracted a small white 
envelope. This he handed to the Pastor. 

“Just read that,” he said. 

Hardie removed his pipe and spread out the two thick 
sheets of notepaper on his knees. 




54 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


The communication, which was typewritten, and bore 
a date nearly two months old, was as follows: 

“The Two Arts Club, 

“Forty-fifth Street, 
“New York. 

“Dear Sir, 

“I am shortly contemplating an extended tour of 
the Samoan Islands, and should be glad to know 
whether, in the event of my landing at Charteris, you 
could guarantee me accommodation for a week or two. 

“The purpose of my visit is to carry out a search for 
the grave of my father, Elmer Kilgour, a one-time South 
Sea sailing-master, who was killed at the age of twenty- 
seven in a native uprising on (I believe) your island in 
the year 18—, during an expedition organized and con¬ 
ducted by himself with a view to ascertaining the truth 
or otherwise of an old Kanaka legend re the supposed 
existence of a jewel hoard, or cavern of gems, hidden 
away in a mountain on one of the Samoan islands by 
an early tribal chief many hundreds of years ago. 

“The expedition was, I learn, attacked by the island¬ 
ers, and my father himself lost his life in the skirmish. 
The remnant of the party, after hurriedly burying their 
leader, made all haste to quit the island. 

“Careful investigation and research have practically 
assured me that Charteris is the very atoll on which the 
affair took place; at the same time, if you have any 
knowledge of the matter, I should be glad if you would 
be so kind as to confirm my supposition. 

“Awaiting your reply with interest. 

“I am, dear sir, 

“Yours faithfully, 
“(Signed) Monte Kilgour. 

“Howard C. Beaumont, 

“United States Administration, 

“Charteris Island, 

“Samoan Ils., 

“S. Pac ” 


BEAUMONT 


55 


The Pastor replaced his pipe between his lips. 

“What a singular communication!” he said, folding 
the sheets and handing them back to Beaumont. 

“May I see ?” queried Lilian. 

Without a word, the Administrator handed them to 
her. 

“You replied, of course?” asked Hardie. 

Beaumont nodded. 

“Oh, yes, immediately.” 

There was silence for some minutes, then Lilian spoke. 

“Kilgour; Kilgour? I know the name. Why, surely 
this isn’t Kilgour the novelist? We have ever so many 
of his books here; Vanda mailed me one or two—birth¬ 
day presents, and so on. She knows him, I believe.” 

“I think it must be the same man. You see the 
address: ‘The Two Arts Club.’ If I remember rightly 
that is the name of the most exclusive literary and 
dramatic club in New York City. Anyway, he’s a big 
man by the look of things, eh, Pastor?” 

Hardie did not reply. His daughter glanced at him 
sharply. 

“Why, father, what’s the matter? You look very 
odd!” 

The Pastor started slightly. 

“Odd? Nonsense! I’m a shade tired, that’s all. 
It’s terribly hot this season—one of the hottest spells 
I’ve ever known during twenty years in the Islands.” 

“I was just going to explain that I wrote to him,” 
said Beaumont; paused, and glanced expectantly from 
one to the other. “Look here, Mr. Hardie, go and lie 
down till evening—take my tip. This heat is enough to 
do a tenderfoot in, let alone a man your age. You’re 
not as young as you once were, you know. Forgive my 
reminding you—but you can’t afford to take liberties 
with yourself. What do you say, Miss Lilian?” 

“It’s no use your talking to father,” she said, a 


56 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


shade impatiently. “I’ve had some, and I know: he’s 
as stubborn as a—a donkey, or a mule. By the way, is 
there any difference between a donkey and a mule? I 
can never remember.” 

Beaumont’s thin lips twitched, leaving the flippancy 
unreturned. 

The Pastor roused himself and relit his pipe, which— 
momentarily forgotten—had gone out. 

“Stop chattering, Lilian,” he said. “I want to hear 
the nature of Mr. Beaumont’s reply to our enterpris¬ 
ing—er-—novelist.” 

“Oh, that’s soon told,” laughed the Administrator. 
“I happen to be pretty well up in the history of the 
Islands, so I just wrote and assured him that he was on 
the right track sure enough. I told him some two or 
three dozen seamen had probably been foully murdered 
at one time or another on Charteris, and for the matter 
of that probably every dam’ island throughout the 
South Seas—from Papua to Rapa. I told him that he 
was quite correct in assuming his father had been slain 
in this magnified forcing-house of ours. I told him 
there was a Cairn in the island with a headstone on top, 
on which was scrawled: 

E. KILGOUR. 

Master: Sloop Albatross 
Died Fightin’ 

Nov. 18 —. 

—So.” He sketched the above inscription on the back 
of the envelope, and handed it to Lilian. 

“I guess you’ve seen it, Pastor? It’s somewhere in 
the Valley.” 

“Yes,” said Hardie, “I have. It must have been 
erected by some member of the crew who escaped the 
general massacre and who desired to pay this last 


BEAUMONT 


57 


tribute to his fallen leader. Whether or not the Cairn 
actually does mark Kilgour’s final resting-place, no man 
can say.” 

Beaumont smiled. 

“I guess I grew quite humorous over the business. I 
said I wasn’t a bit surprised to hear there’d been a dust- 
up with the natives. I said that in the days of the old 
Polynesian Slave Trade there was a dust-up every other 
week. Oh, I pulled his young legs quite a lot. ... Of 
course, Pm sorry about it all: but life’s life all the 
world over, an’ when you come to the Islands you find 
it’s mixed with ninety per cent, undiluted death!” 

“What did you say about the legend—the story of 
the hoard of gems?” 

The American tucked the envelope away in his letter- 
case. 

“Not too much. I told him that the legend still per¬ 
sisted, but that in another two or three hundred years 
it would most likely die a natural death—possibly be¬ 
cause there were no longer any islanders alive to tell the 
tale. . . . Our Empire is declining fast, Mr. Hardie. 
In another two or three hundred years . . .” 

“Quite so,” said Hardie. 

“I got in one good touch, though,” continued the 
irrepressible Beaumont. “I suggested that when he 
honoured us with a visit he should also call and pay his 
respects to Ra!” 

“Oh!” ejaculated Lilian. 

The Pastor laughed grimly. 

“Ra? I should consider that I had accomplished my 
greatest triumph as a missionary if I could successfully 
eradicate this Ra tomfoolery . . . stamp it out once 
and for ever!” 

His voice grew unexpectedly hoarse; a gleam that 
was almost fanatical leapt into his vivid blue eyes. “It 
is a menace to the work of God,” he cried. “A canker- 


58 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


ous growth—sapping the vitality of our people! Oh, 
would to Heaven I possessed the power . . ” 

“You don’t though,” chuckled Beaumont, “we none 
of us do. Personally, I let well alone, and close my 
eyes to the whole wretched business. Take my advice, 
sir, and do the same.” 

“And have you received a reply to your letter, Mr. 
Beaumont?” asked Lilian, a little awed by her father’s 
unwonted wrath. 

“Yes; and this is where matters become really inter¬ 
esting,” he smiled, to reassure her. “Mr. Kilgour mailed 
to say he is now in Apia or thereabouts. He will be 
leaving for Charteris in a few days if the weather holds 
so long. Myself, I think we may expect a break 
soon now. The wind recently has been in a bad state 
of flux.” 

“Wouldn’t it be curious if he and Yanda both arrived 
together?” she said. 

“That was precisely what I was thinking. It would 
be rather fortunate, all things considered. She would be 
assured of at least one gentleman on whom she could 
rely if the necessity arose, though as a matter of fact 
these long-distance schooners are very orderly and well- 
managed. You may be sure the Merwins will put her on 
her guard. They will have to travel with her as far as 
Suva, anyway. To be perfectly candid, I strongly 
object to the slurs levied against the Islands. We might 
constitute the plague-spot of the globe! My experience 
is that even the lowest beachcomber extant, provided 
you could keep him from a saloon or bar, would run 
straight and live clean even in the Pacific if he had some 
sort of definite and regular work to do. It’s flabby 
muscles and too much time to spend with the women that 
does our whites down. Systematic employment and a 
Government ban on love-making would turn the Islands 


BEAUMONT, 59 

into a breeding-ground for men of real, out-to-win 
world value! Curse the flies !” 

He broke off, laughing, as he slashed broadly right 
and left with a brilliant, spotted handkerchief. 

“Well, well, I guess I’d better be going; I’ve a heap 
of work to get through to-night, and a twenty-mile trek 
inland to-morrow morning. Tiakapo* Pastor! I’ll be 
seeing you again before Miss Vanda arrives. My word 
—a brand-new beauty and a famous novelist! Tell you 
what, Charteris’ll become a Society resort yet! Good¬ 
night! Will you see me off the premises, Miss Lilian? 
That’s grand!” 

Seizing her arm he passed through the open window. 
The Pastor heard him call ‘Good-Night’ to Mrs. 
Hardie, who had just returned from a visit to a young 
native woman who had that day given birth to two in¬ 
tensely brown and solemn and corpulent babies. 

Dusk was falling over Charteris—the soft, wonderful 
blue dusk of the island world. In trembling, trans¬ 
lucent folds it stole cloak-like over the lagoon, the de¬ 
serted beaches, the village, the parsonage, and the hills 
beyond: while, dim, trembling lamps of gold and white 
and rose, the stars came out and lit the stage-wings of 
the sky in readiness for the pageant of the night. 

The Pastor leant on the verandah rail and stared 
down upon the myriad crude, barbaric homes of his 
people: upon the bold whiteness of his little tin chapel: 
and out to the shore where, faintly aglow with the star¬ 
light, he could glimpse the long shimmer of the lagoon 
as distantly there was borne to his ears the low, never- 
ending lullaby of the reef. 

As he stood there, motionless, he heard, very faintly 
at first and infinitely far away, the muffled tattoo of a 
drum ... a ghostly throbbing, a sinister murmuring. 

* Good-night. 


60 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


His long, tapering fingers gripped the rail until the 
knuckles stood out white from the surrounding flesh. 

Then, like a sound heard in a dream, the drum-note 
died away. 


VIII 


THE MOON-PATH 

The Rhoda was old, and she had seen much service. 
Her lines did not possess that pristine quality of lithe, 
sinuous grace which one comes naturally to associate 
with a modern South Sea schooner. Yet she was com- 
mendably seaworthy. Twice she had had her keel ripped 
open by cruel coral spurs; but so excellent was the 
quality of her timbers that her owners had thought fit 
to have her repaired each time, and, a little before the 
days of which I write, had even gone to the length of 
installing an auxiliary oil-motor, to serve her whenever 
this particular portion of the Pacific should become 
capricious and essay to mock the Doldrums. She had 
been half-swamped by fearful cyclonic storms on many 
and varied occasions. She had seen her decks red with 
the frothing blood of misguided and foolhardy Solomon 
Islanders; and she had conveyed the elite of globe¬ 
trotting America here, there and everywhere among the 
atolls of the Dangerous Archipelago. In brief, she was 
about as fully-fledged a vessel as you could find from 
Cape York to Tahiti—a moral lesson in wood and iron 
to all who beheld her; and a symbol of endurance and 
patient heroism to all who heard her story. 

Monte Kilgour shifted his chair slightly beneath the 
striped canvas awning that had been rigged up tem¬ 
porarily over her quarter-deck. The night was close 
and sultry, with only the faint dry breeze created by 
the vessePs movement to afford her four passengers 
any relief. 

From fo’castle, caboose and Glory Hole came the un- 
61 


62 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


harmonious piping of a mouth-organ, and the soft 
chanting of Kanaka seamen. These four passengers sat 
in a semicircle, talking desultorily and fanning them¬ 
selves alternately with their handkerchiefs or large 
tropic-hats. One of them nursed a glass of whisky on 
his knee. 

“Mon Dieu , but it is hot!” this individual remarked 
approximately every three minutes. 

The others listened to the endless reiteration of his 
formula in sullen silence. If a man lisps, he does not 
find any pleasure in constantly being reminded of the 
fact. If he be dying of starvation it is no consolation 
to be reminded that others are dying of starvation also. 

Kilgour glanced at his watch. 

“By Jove, it’s nearly midnight. I think I’ll just take 
a stroll round deck before I turn in. Care to come, 
Vanda?” 

The Rhoda’s solitary lady passenger stretched her¬ 
self inelegantly. 

“Mon Dieu , but it is hot!” observed a querulous voice 
at her side. 

“Yes,” she said. “I’ll come!” 

Kilgour laughed indulgently, and assisted her to rise. 

“If the world isn’t an entire vacuum, we ought to feel 
some fresh air in the bows,” he smiled. 

She commenced to walk away; then, as though she 
had forgotten something, she turned to the man clutch¬ 
ing the glass. 

“Pardon me, monsieur,” she said, “but if you will 
take my advice you will throw that poison overboard, 
and accompany us . . . exercise would cool you down 
wonderfully, I am certain.” 

The fourth passenger, one Lepmann, a German- 
American trader from Charteris, nodded indolent ap¬ 
proval. 


THE MOON-PATH 


63 


“Good for you, Miss Hardie. Leturc, you swine, 
why don’t you do as you are told ? If I were not so hot 
and not so fat I should jump at the invitation.” 

They all laughed heartily, with the exception of the 
discomfited toper. 

“I’m not a swine, curse you!” he growled. 

“No. Merely a vulgar little froggy, eh?” suggested 
his tormentor genially. 

The Frenchman’s eyes blazed, but he said nothing. 

“Ready?” asked Kilgour, catching the girl’s arm. 

“Quite,” she answered, and together they swung off 
along the deck, the man’s long limbs jerking somewhat 
in their effort to keep the pace she herself had set. 

Lepmann removed his large, gold-rimmed spectacles, 
and smiled benignantly. 

“They make a pretty pair,” he said, half to himself. 

Lecture stooped to replenish his glass. 

“Fool! How much walking do you suppose they 
will do?” 

Lepmann, who was the father of a beautiful half- 
caste daughter, replaced his spectacles with a chuckle. 

“Not so very much, I guess.” 

On the raised half-deck forward, hidden from the 
eyes of the curious by two large coils of tarred rope, 
Kilgour was saying: 

“One more day to go, and then-” 

The girl at his side raised her face, looking up into 
his own. 

“And then . . . home.” 

He twisted the loose softness of her sleeve back from 
her rounded, faintly rose-tinted arm. 

“And then perhaps I shall lose you!” he murmured 
underneath his breath. 

She glanced over the side of the vessel. Musically 
there came to their ears the low burble of the waters 
parting at the bow. 



64 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


“It is for you to keep me,” she said; “to keep me 
always, and never—never let me go! Can you do that, 
Monte ?” 

His lean young face hardened: the mobile mouth 
grew unexpectedly stern. 

“Yes,” he said, “I think I can.” 

Unexpectedly, she sighed and gave a little, half-im¬ 
patient gesture. 

“Why is it?” she asked wonderingly. “Why has 
all this happened to us ? Why do these things happen ?” 

“I don’t understand you.” 

She seized the lapel of his white coat, pulling at it 
gently. 

“I mean . . . why should we fall in love with one 
another, like this? I know you’ve worshipped me ever 
since you met me at the Two Arts Carnival, ages ago. 
But you’ve been about the world: seen everything: done 
everything: known women: flirted with women every¬ 
where—English, American, French. Women of every 
nationality . . . and yet . . . you love 7ne —want me! 
Why is it?” 

He stared out dully over the shimmering waste of 
water, kissed all to silver by the moon, and gemmed like 
a rich carpet with the reflection of stars. On the one 
hand, the moonlight made a pathway of silver so tan¬ 
gible and so apparently permanent that it seemed to 
him he had but to step over the side of the ship to jour¬ 
ney forth along it out towards that dim infinitude 
where it died away and was lost to view. Every now 
and again, with a loud swirling of waters cut apart as 
by a knife, a fish, dazzling as a harlequin, rose from 
the sea and fell back out of sight with a dull plop. 

A tropic night breeds romance. The lure of the soft 
dusk is well-nigh irresistible. In a world decked out for 
lanterned carnival, blood runs hot and pulses race— 
keeping a delirious measure to the tune of love. 


THE MOON-PATH 65 

Passionately, Kilgour’s arms went round the slender 
girl. 

“I want you,” he said hoarsely, “I want you so 
desperately that I dare not face life any more without 
you! I ache for the touch of your lips—the scent of 
your hair . . . Vanda!” 

He was rapidly losing control of himself. 

“Hush!” she said, soothing him as a mother might 
soothe a fretful child. “You have said all this before, 
dear.” 

The grip of his hands on her shoulders was agony, 
but she did not move. 

“I know,” he cried, “I know! Why, I can remem¬ 
ber almost every single word I said to you in the Palm 
Court of the Two Arts when I first told you I cared 
for you—nearly three years ago. You were only seven¬ 
teen, then. And I’ve loved you ever since. . . . What 
an amazing piece of luck that your Uncle Gerald should 
have been a member of my Club. Otherwise—I might 
never have met you.” 

He smiled, reminiscently. 

“I think Gerald Randall is splendid,” he continued, 
“though I expect your home-people would flay him alive 
if they knew he had helped put through our affaire! 
But that reminds me. On no account let them know. I 
promised to reveal nothing further than the fact that 
he had introduced us. If they discovered that he had 
permitted a bad, Bohemian fiction-writer to make love 
to you whilst you were ostensibly supposed to be study¬ 
ing music, they would figure him out to be a pretty poor 
sort of guardian for the young and unsophisticated 
daughter of a Missionary! 

“And as to what we are going to say when we arrive 
at Charteris, I shall be guided entirely by the course of 
events. Perhaps the best plan would be for me to tell 


66 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


your father, quite casually, that you and I have known 
each other some little time in New York, and then let 
him hustle to a conclusion. That, at any rate, is what 
Gerald himself suggested. What do you think?” 

She was silent a moment, then: 

“You say you want me—that life is unbearable with¬ 
out me- That is a very foolish thing to say, 

Monte: very foolish. For I am yours—as surely as 
any woman belongs to any man, so I belong to you. 
In New York, I was flippant and foolish; I did not 
understand or appreciate the quality of the de¬ 
votion you offered me. Now, in these few weeks 
we have spent together journeying across this vast, 
silent ocean, with only dear Mr. Merwin and his 
wife to interrupt our solitude, I have come to realize 
all that we are to each other. Yours, Monte? Why, 
have you forgotten so soon-?” 

“What do you mean?” he faltered. 

In the eerie light she looked almost regal. Her soft, 
fair hair was the colour of ashes, so white, so ghostly 
white, was the light: only her mouth was a curved, 
scarlet line. 

“Have you forgotten that night?” she asked gently. 

“That night when the Apia boat put in to one of the 
islands with the Mail?” 

She looked up at him shyly, and: “Have you?” she 
repeated, her voice so low that he had to bend his head 
to catch the words. 

He smiled again. 

“No—I have not forgotten. We bathed together in 
the lagoon, when the world was asleep and there were 
only the stars to see . . 

“Was that all-?” 

“Not quite all,” he said. “Afterwards, I took you 
in my arms, and kissed you until you could hardly 





THE MOON-PATH 67 

breathe ... I told you for the thousandth time that I 
loved you . . . that was all !” 

“It would kill my mother if she knew . . 

His face hardened. 

“Mothers are like that,” he said, unconsciously voic¬ 
ing a truth that has existed since the first dim dawn of 
civilization. “I remember when I was a boy of eighteen, 
away back in Seattle, my home-town, I fell in love—or 
thought I fell in love—with a girl who lived three blocks 
away. I took her for a ride one evening in my trailer. 
When we were twenty miles from home we ran out of 
gasoline—we were right away from everywhere and we 
had to spend the night alone in the woods. I rigged up 
a shelter for her, and slept in the trailer myself. ... It 
was quite six months before the people who brought me 
up—I was an orphan, as you know—were really satis¬ 
fied that nothing had happened to us. You know what 
I mean ?” 

“Yes, I think I do.” 

“The girl’s parents were the same. I suppose it’s 
only natural. Love’s a beautiful thing: the most beauti¬ 
ful thing God ever made. It is like a flower—a lily—all 
white and pure, and trembling with dew . . . but there 
are maggots and a blight beneath the soft green of its 
leaves.” 

“And the world searches for the maggots,” she said. 

“Little lady,” he responded half-regretfully, “you 
must not allow the iron to eat into your soul so soon— 
so very soon. The old world is very, very wonderful 
still. Do you see the moonlight over there? The moon- 
path? There are dark waters on either side . . . and 
cruel sharks circling beneath like grinning devils. But 
does that make the moon-path any less beautiful, I 
wonder?” 

Holding her hand in his, he advanced to the side of 
the schooner, and, leaning on the rail, gazed out along 


68 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


the shining roadway that still lured and beckoned across 
that tropic sea. 

“Our life,” he said, “should be like the moon-path 
. . . white, pure, and beautiful. There will be dark 
waters around us; they will suck and surge about our 
very feet, maybe; and there will be grinning devils 
circling beneath us ever seeking to drag us down into 
the abyss.” 

He paused, then: 

“But we shall walk on unafraid, hand clasped in 
hand, and the moon-path will prevail. The sword of 
our love shall slay the devils, dear-” 

Her arms went round his neck. 

“Monte . . she stammered, hardly able to speak, 
so great was the wave of desire that swept over her. 

“My woman!” he breathed, and crumpled her limp, 
unresisting body to him with a primeval fierceness that 
had its beginning in emotions over half as old as time, 
or older still. ... 

One of the coils of tarred rope shook slightly, and 
was still. 



IX 


THE SMALL HOURS 

On the night before the Rhoda’s arrival at Charteris, 
Lilian Hardie retired to bed in no enviable frame of 
mind. 

It had been a day of disaster: a day of unrest: a day 
of extraordinary disturbances and bewildering con¬ 
fusions. Together, she and her mother had instituted 
and eventually completed the preparations for Vanda’s 
advent. A second bed had been erected in the elder 
girl’s room, with the aid of Mauki and another native 
boy, after an endless and exasperating amount of 
labour. At the best, this bed was a makeshift, of the 
camp variety, and alarmingly unstable. 

“Now don’t sit on that bed whatever you do,” Mrs. 
Hardie had cautioned the overheated and cynical Lilian. 
“Father said he would borrow two packing-cases from 
Lepmann’s Store to support the head and foot. Mauki, 
come and help me to carry the old cupboard from the 
outhouse. ... We must give the child something to 
keep her clothes in!” 

“New York finery,” scoffed Lilian. “A great deal of 
use that will be out in the Islands!” 

Mrs. Hardie and Mauki, intrigued yet obedient, with¬ 
drew. 

Lilian sat down on the bed. It promptly collapsed. 

“Bother!” said Lilian with much deliberation. 

She heard her father’s voice in the corridor. 

“The best I could find,” he was saying. “Doris and 
I ransacked the place ... I think they’ll do.” 

69 


70 THE forest of fear 

Doris was Lepmann’s half-caste daughter, and she 
was very beautiful. Lilian hated her. 

A sort of triumphal procession entered the room. 
Her father, so to speak, represented the band and 
banner element; just behind him staggered Mrs. Hardie 
and Mauki, bearing between them a dilapidated and 
worm-eaten kitchen cupboard, long since discarded as 
a thing of domestic or ornamental value. 

The Pastor stopped abruptly. 

“The bed,” observed his daughter, “is divided against 
itself—it will not stand.” 

Mrs. Hardie abandoned her efforts with the cup¬ 
board, releasing her hold on it with such suddenness 
that Mauki was hard put to it to skip out of the way 
and avoid having his toes crushed. 

“Lilian,” she cried, “did you or did you not sit on 
that bed?” 

“Bed?” retorted her daughter bitingly. “That is 
not a bed—it’s an—an atrocity!” 

“Answer my question!” shrilled her mother. 

“Well—yes, I sat on it. For half a second.” 

Mrs. Hardie burst unexpectedly into tears. 

“And I deliberately begged her not to do so,” she 
gasped, between sobs of mortification. “Do speak to 
her, Robert; she always makes a point of ignoring my 
wishes.” 

Mauki, a little alarmed, withdrew discreetly. 

The Pastor turned to his daughter. 

“Lilian, Lilian, I must protest! Here are we all 
working like Kanakas, and you deliberately hinder us at 
every turn. Can’t you see that the bed is broken? The 
side-piece has snapped!” 

“It’s a ridiculous bed,” said Lilian, a little spot of 
colour burning in either white cheek. “I never saw 
a more ridiculous bed!” 


THE SMALL HOURS 71 

“It’s the only one we have got, anyway !” retorted her 
father with some asperity. 

“Vanda mustn’t expect luxuries in the South Seas. 
We don’t have them. People who are nurtured on 
caviare, cura9ao, and eaurde-Cologne ought to give the 
Islands a miss!” 

“She must not expect luxury,” the Pastor agreed; 
“but she can reasonably look for comfort. However, 
that is soon settled. I will repair the camp-bed as well 
as I can and you will sleep on it after to-night.” 

“I re -” 

“Did you hear what I said?” 

“Yes, but-” 

“You will sleep on the camp-bed after to-night. You 
understand ?” 

The two circles of colour in Lilian’s cheeks faded 
slowly. 

“Yes. I understand,” she said. 

“Good. Now, I’ll fetch my tools. Mauki! Where 
is the boy?” 

“He went out,” explained Lilian. “I expect he saw 
there was going to be a scene.” 

Hardie’s thin lips closed in a grim line. 

“Go and fetch me my tools,” he said to the girl. 

She went. 

So the day had progressed. Discord and tumult pre¬ 
vailed: not even the prospect of tea brought relief. 
Three intensely gloomy and silent people sat on the 
verandah, eating toast and courteously passing one an¬ 
other the butter and the fruit or the jam. Mrs. Hardie 
murmured trivialities, Lilian gazed vacantly into space, 
and the Pastor grunted an occasional ‘Yes’ or ‘No.’ 

Almost at the close of the meal, he asked for a third 
cup of tea. 

“There’s no water,” apologized Mrs. Hardie. “Lilian, 
will you take the jug and boil some more?” 




72 THE FOREST OF FEAR 

Lilian sauntered leisurely into the house, water-jug 
in hand. 

“What is the matter with that child?” asked her 
mother. 

The Pastor looked up, half smiling. 

“Has she seen Beaumont to-day ?” he asked. 

Mrs. Hardie laughed in spite of herself. 

“Nonsense, Robert. Don’t be absurd. You speak 
as if—as if she cared for the man!” 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

“Well-” 

“I expect—I’m sure—she must feel a weeny bit-— 
what shall I say?—jealous?—about Yanda. After all, 
we can’t be surprised ... all these preparations . . .” 

Lilian reappeared. 

“Thank you, dear,” said her mother, holding out her 
hand to receive the jug. 

“If I am capable of fetching the water surely I am 
capable of putting the jug on the table?” 

“Certainly,” said Mrs. Hardie, meekly. 

Lilian stepped carefully round her father’s deck¬ 
chair. She was just about to place the white jug on the 
table, when her foot caught one of the chair’s thin, out¬ 
stretched legs and she stumbled. 

“Damn!” cried the Pastor, as the boiling water 
poured all over his knees. . . . 

And now it was night. 

As she undressed slowly, Lilian pondered the day’s 
events with a sombre lack of enthusiasm. The evening 
was damply close; it gave one the feeling of standing in 
a steam laundry. She always kept the lattices closed 
until she was ready to slip beneath the mosquito-net, 
and the atmosphere of the little, square room was 
stifling. 

Laying her garments carelessly away as she discarded 
them, she wondered, irrelevantly, what kind of under- 



THE SMALL HOURS 


73 


wear Vanda would favour . . . soft, transparent 
things, she supposed, hardly calculated to serve any 
other purpose than enhance the fabled beauty of her 
white body. ( She had not seen her sister since the days 
when she, Vanda, had been a shy and rather frightened 
schoolgirl, with large, wondering blue eyes that seemed 
forever asking mute questions.) 

She hated bodies. She considered them obscene and 
unnecessary. She could not understand women who 
took a physical pride in themselves. . . . She wished 
her own body was a shade more attractive, though; a 
shade more curved, a shade more sinuous and willowy. 
Of course she hated herself for wishing such a thing, 
only . . . when she was bathing sometimes, say with 
Beaumont, she was acutely aware that she was rather 
pitifully thin and angular. 

Men—filthy creatures!—admired sheer animal grace 
and beauty. Vanda would possess all that. ... At 
times she hated her sister. 

The whole thing was ridiculous ! 

She loosened her straight hair and it fell—not 
“tumbled”—to her shoulders. 

Something seemed to snap in her brain. 

With a fierce gesture she darted to the door and 
locked it. Then rapidly—feverishly—she flung off her 
remaining garments, donned her plain cotton night¬ 
dress and sick with self-disgust crept, shivering, into 
bed . . . 

An hour later she stole to the window and opened the 
lattice. . . . 

The world was very still. Like Wordsworth’s Nun, 
the night waited breathless with adoration, A soft heat 
haze merged the landscape into a blur of rich violet and 
grey, while above this trembling veil the nadir over¬ 
head was a powdered glory of stars. Even the eternal 


74 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


saga of the reef was but the dim echo of a sound from 
the halls of dream. 

The silence of the Pacific is a thing to marvel at. 
When you first come out to the Islands it appals you. 
It is terrible in its intensity. You are possessed by in¬ 
sane desire to wreck that perfect peace: to scream: to 
cry aloud: to blaspheme: anything to shatter the 
vacuum and admit the noise and tumult and hubbub of 
the world of life . . . for this is not the silence of 
death: it is the silent prelude to an imminent disaster 
that never seems to take place. 

When it does take place; when the firmanent is lurid 
with writhing serpents of fire; when land and sea rock 
to the shrill, wild tune of the storm; when the palm 
trees totter and fall and the forests are torn to con¬ 
fusion and desolation—you gape, and cringe, and babble 
to your God for mercy, and for peace. . . . 

The storm passes . . . and there is silence. 

As Lilian, resting her bare arms on the window-ledge, 
thus mused resentfully upon the bitterness of human 
existence, she was a little surprised to hear, apparently 
from the foliage beneath her window, the vague murmur 
of voices. Leaning a little further out, she listened 
intently; and by and by she became assured that two 
people were resting beneath the lantana bush on the 
winding mountain path that ran right beside the par¬ 
sonage, on its way down to the village. 

One of the two was a man. She could hear the deep 
twang of his voice distinctly. 

Only one man on the whole island possessed a voice 
quite like that: quite so resonant: quite so deep, and 
clear. 

That man was Beaumont, the Administrator. 

Almost as though she had been struck in the face, 
Lilian withdrew her head. 

Slipping her bare feet into her shoes, and flinging a 


THE SMALL HOURS 75 

thin wrap about her shoulders, she unlocked the door 
and crept out into the bleak, dark corridor. She was 
trembling all over; her limbs were like blocks of ice; 
only by a powerful effort of will did she prevent her 
teeth from chattering. 

She moved slowly, clumsily; stumbling into a chair 
and bruising her knees. She was obsessed by one para¬ 
mount idea: it propelled her as though she were an 
automaton deriving her motive power from a hidden 
source of energy within. 

She must, somehow or other, steal behind the lantana 
and listen. She must ascertain who was the American’s 
companion, and why they were thus sitting there on the 
mountain path—talking. It would also be advisable to 
find out what formed the topic of conversation. . . . 

She let herself out of the bungalow by the rear door, 
closing it carefully behind her. Then, walking swiftly, 
she skirted the side of the house and passed through the 
wicket-gate that divided the parsonage compound from 
the narrow road beyond. Her first quivering access of 
emotion had passed now, leaving her face deathly. But 
she breathed evenly and her brain had resumed its 
momentarily relaxed control of her nervous system. 

The big lantana bush overhung the roadway, and 
under its friendly shade some philanthropically-minded 
person—possibly the Administrator himself—had 
erected a rude £o«-wood seat, which formed a welcome 
resting-place for those whose business took them beyond 
the parsonage to the more lofty terraces of the moun¬ 
tain. 

Lilian clambered up the side of the flower-garnished 
bank on which the lantana grew, and carefully drawing 
the ferns and grasses about her, knelt on the edge and 
peered down upon the occupants of the seat. 

She drew in her breath with a little sibilant gasp. . . • 

One glance was sufficient to reveal their identity. 


76 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


The man, as she had known instinctively from the 
time when she had first heard the resonant murmur of 
his voice, was Beaumont: the girl was—Doris Lepmann. 

She sank limply back amid the ferns. . . . 

Doris was in his arms: her head hidden against his 
shoulder, her black hair falling all about him. 

When she had recovered sufficiently to peer again 
over the edge of the bank upon the unsuspecting lovers, 
she saw that he was kissing the beautiful half-caste: 
kissing her calmly, almost brutally, she thought, on 
her golden arms and shoulders. 

Doris wore a Mother Hubbard—nothing more. The 
skirt of the Mother Hubbard reached just below her 
knees: her legs were bare—quite bare. 

There was nothing unusual in that. All the island 
girls wore Mother Hubbards. True, the Pastor had on 
many occasions propounded a perfectly legitimate 
theory that such a costume bordered upon the indecent. 
But, being a sane and broad-minded man, he had, under 
pressure from Mrs. Hardie, waived his objections and 
meekly assented to her statement that after all they 
were living in the South Seas and not in Boston or New 
York, or Chicago or London. 

But Lilian Hardie was in no mood to appreciate the 
innate wisdom of this argument. The sight of Doris in 
her Mother Hubbard, and with her bare legs curled 
beneath her on the seat, sent a hot thrill of horror 
through her. 

So this was what happened when her father, the 
German-American trader who owned the largest store 
on Charteris, left the island on business? This the 
secret of Doris’ hoity-toity manner towards the Hardies 
in particular, and, in fact, all the white population of 
the island? This the explanation, long sought secretly 
by Lilian, of the American’s frequent social visits to the 
Lepmann shack-homestead down by the beach? 


THE SMALL HOURS 77 

Doris was carrying on an intrigue with the Adminis¬ 
trator! The Administrator was . . . Beaumont. 

Poor Lilian. In one grand glory of destruction her 
dreams came shattering, like falling masonry, about 
her head. A great wave of disillusion enveloped her, 
swept her seething and half-blind in its embrace high 
upon the desolate shores of utter hopelessness, then 
receding silently down the shingle it slipped back into 
the watery wastes from whence it had come. 

She threw off the cloak she had flung about her 
shoulders, and pressed her hands to her breasts in a 
frenzied effort to check the awful tumult of her heart 
. , . her body was so cold, so deadly, icy cold, and 
damp that her spirit recoiled in horror . . . her hands 
might almost have touched a corpse . . . 

“Doris,’’ came Beaumont’s voice, all murmurous with 
love, “Doris—look at me!” 

His hand turned her face up to his own. He raised 
one of her bare arms to his shoulder . . . bending his 
head towards her. . . . 

With a sharp stifled scream, the “corpse” tumbled 
over the edge of the bank and fell in a tumult of beat¬ 
ing limbs and torn nightdress at their feet. 

“My God!” cried Beaumont, and sprang from the 
seat, releasing Doris as though she were a leper. 

Lilian crouched before him, her face ghastly in the 
wan half-light. 

“You . . . Oh, you . . . you!” she mouthed. 

Suddenly she tore at her hair. 

“You love her!” she shrieked. “Oh! You love her! 
love her! love her i” 

She seized the edge of her nightdress as though to rip 
it from her body. 

“Kiss her! Kiss her! Kiss her. . . she laughed. 
“Why don’t you kiss her?” 


78 THE FOREST OF FEAR 

“Lilian! Lilian—stop! for God’s sake!” blithered 
the man. 

She rose to her feet; the skirt of her torn white 
garment was red with blood. She rushed towards him. 

He swore, and stepped aside; but he was unable to 
avoid her. She flung her arms about him, sobbing and 
covering his agonized face with kisses. 

Doris rose also, and stood watching, a faint, half¬ 
scornful smile curving her full, red lips. And then—he 
acted. 

With a swift movement of his great hands, he pinned 
her arms to her side and held her from him. 

“Lilian,” he said quietly, “control yourself—at 
once!” 

“You love her! love her! love her!” she sobbed. 
“Oh, you love her! You know you love her!” 

“Listen to me,” he said. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Doris reseat her¬ 
self and cross her bare legs. 

“Lilian,” he repeated unsteadily, “listen to me. You 
must go back to bed at once. Do you understand?” 

“Love her,” choked the girl, “you love her! You 
know you love her!” 

“Be quiet!” he said. 

Her pale, streaming eyes met his. 

“Deny it!” she cried. “Deny: that you love 
her!” 

“I have no wish to deny it,” he retorted coldly. 

Her eyes opened wider—they went on opening— 
wider, and wider and wider. 

“You—have no wish—to—deny it?” she gasped. 

He bowed his head: 

“That is what I said.” 

Doris smoothed the creases of her Mother Hubbard: 
her lips were still smiling. 


THE SMALL HOURS 79 

Lilian shuddered violently. 

“Let me go—you are hurting me.” 

“Will you obey my request? Return straight to 
bed ?” 

“I—I am not a child!” she faltered. 

“No, you are not a child," he repeated beneath his 
breath, then: 

“I will come with you,” he said. 

She turned her head and looked at Doris. 

“You —love a half-castef” she hissed. 

She saw his face darken, the grip of his hands tight¬ 
ened until she could well-nigh have screamed with the 
pain. 

“Lilian!” 

A sudden, bitter sense of shame overwhelmed her ; 
she hung her head. 

And just then he beheld, for the first time, the blood¬ 
stain on her nightdress. 

“I say,” he cried in boyish dismay. “You are 
hurt ?” 

“My leg,” she replied. “I have cut my leg—when I 
fell over the bank; it—it’s nothing, really!” 

Her mouth was twisted pitifully. 

Without a word he lifted her into his arms and car¬ 
ried her to the seat. 

“Doris,” he said, “tear me a strip from your Mother 
Hubbard—no—wait a moment—I’ll use my handker¬ 
chief.” 

He extracted it from his pocket. 

“Let me bind it,” whispered Doris. “I think she’s 
cut it just below the knee.” 

Beaumont unostentatiously turned his back. Pres¬ 
ently Doris called to him: 

“I think she’s fainted-” 

A swift glance convinced the man that this was so. 



80 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


“Wait for me here,” he said, speaking rapidly. “I’ll 
carry her home. I shan’t be very long.” 

Five minutes later, he pushed open the rear door of 
the parsonage, and entering quietly made his way to 
the room he knew to be usually occupied by Lilian. 

Here, he deposited his still unconscious burden upon 
the larger of the two beds the apartment contained. 
Then, lighting a candle, he poured out a glass of 
water, and dashed the tepid liquid brutally into her 
face. 

She shuddered, stretched like one awaking from heavy 
slumber, and opened her eyes. 

Beaumont sat down awkwardly on the edge of the 
bed. 

“Better?” he asked, not unkindly. 

“Where—am—I?” 

“In your own room. I’ve just brought you here-” 

She started upright. 

“Don’t be alarmed,” he assured her. “No one has 
seen us—except the moon, and the moon’s a very old 
friend of mine and can be trusted implicitly.” 

She smiled faintly, and sank back on her pillow. 

“You must be—absolutely disgusted,” she said, in 
the manner of one who states a very obvious and in¬ 
disputable fact. 

“Not particularly,” he replied, and: “Have you a 
towel anywhere about—you’re soaking.” 

“There’s one over there,” she said weakly, “by the 
water-jug.” 

He rose and fetched it. Then, in the most matter-of- 
fact way possible, he commenced rubbing her face and 
neck with it. Too astonished to protest, she let him do 
it, almost frightened by the tenderness, the gentleness 
of his movements. 

“There,” he said at length, “that’s better. Now 



THE SMALL HOURS 81 

promise me you’ll attend to that poor little leg of yours, 
and I’ll just run away like a good boy. Promise.” 

“I promise,” she whispered. 

He stood looking down upon her. In the soft, warm 
light of the candle, she seemed almost beautiful. Her 
skin was so delicately pale that it reminded him of rare 
marble*; and he could see little blue veins crossing it here 
and there. Her hair was tangled, and spread, in dis¬ 
orderly confusion, about the pillow: even its lack-lustre 
brown had taken on a curious sheen. 

She met his gaze with tear-dimmed eyes, her lips 
quivering. 

“Can you ever forgive me?” she faltered. 

And suddenly he became intensely brusque and active. 
He gestured abandonedly: 

“Nonsense!” he said sharply. “You were only over¬ 
wrought—tired—disgruntled. You will be quite bet¬ 
ter in the morning-” 

There came a muffled thud from the corridor, and a 
violent exclamation. 

Lilian sat up in bed, petrified. 

“It’s father!” she gasped. “He always runs into 
things like that. . . . Oh, what are we going to 
do ?” 

Beaumont whitened. 

“Hide!” she hissed. “You must hide—quick!” 

Like a stone, Beaumont dropped to the floor and 
rolled under the bed. Lilian blew out the candle. 

Simultaneously the door opened and the Pastor en¬ 
tered. She could just discern the massive outline of his 
figure in the doorway. 

“Lilian, are you asleep?” 

She heaved a deep sigh and turned over on the bed. 

He stood motionless, listening. 

Beneath the bed, Beaumont wrestled with an over¬ 
mastering desire to sneeze. 



82 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


Lilian, acting better than she knew, sighed again. 

“H’m,” said the Pastor doubtfully, and: “I could 
have sworn . . .” 

She held her breath in an agony of suspense. Why 
wouldn’t he go? What was he waiting for? Why did 
he stand there so long? What could he have sworn? 

The girl became aware that her self-control was fast 
slipping away from her. She knew that if he waited 
many seconds longer she would scream. Her heart was 
beating so furiously that she thought the sound of it 
must surely be heard all over the room. 

Beaumont, clutching his nasal organ, indulged in 
feverish and hectic prayer. 

Silently the Pastor closed the door. 

Beaumont sneezed. 

Smothering her face in the pillow, Lilian burst into 
hysterical laughter. 

“Phew!” said Beaumont. “What a night!” and 
rolled out from his hiding-place. 

Some ten minutes later he rejoined the impatient 
Doris beneath the lantana. 

“And I have heard it said that the South Sea islands 
are dull—ye gods!” he laughed, as he slipped an arm 
about her waist. “My dear, that is one of the many 
legends which might with advantage be told to the 
marines!” 

They were very silent during the walk back to the 
beach. When the white outline of his bungalow rose 
like a phantom of the night before them, he said: 

“Of course, Doris, you understand that no one save 
ourselves must ever know anything of this ? I gave Miss 
Hardie my promise—I know you will give me yours?” 

“Of course,” she retorted in her pretty, primitive 
English that had so curious a kink of the native in it. 

“Thank you,” answered Beaumont, as he took her in 
his arms for the last, long kiss. 


X 


VANDA 

“ 'She comes not when the noon is on the roses; 
too bright is day. 

She comes not to my soul till it reposes, from 
work and play. 

But when night is on the hills and great 
voices roll in from sea. 

By starlight and by candlelight and dream- 
light she comes to me/ ** 

quoted Beaumont sentimentally as he stood, between 
Mrs. Hardie and Lilian, on the quay at Charteris and 
watched the Rhoda making fast to the wooden capstans. 

The advent of any vessel is an occasion for celebra¬ 
tion on any of the more isolated islands of Polynesia; 
and should that vessel carry the Mail the occasion be¬ 
comes almost a nine days’ wonder and forms a conver¬ 
sational topic for a longer period still. 

But when that Mail boat is also the bearer of im¬ 
portant passengers in addition to its official burden— 
why, Bedlam reigns supreme for a few delirious hours. 
All the inhabitants of the coast villages; all the white 
population, sometimes varying from four to fifty peo¬ 
ple, throng down to the quay—that focus of events— 
with music and laughter and dancing, and with loud 
and often incoherent cries offer their hospitality—such 
as it is—to the visitors. 

So it was on this hot evening when the Rhoda ar¬ 
rived from Apia just as the setting sun turned the world 
to a glory of rose and gold. 

83 


84 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


Kilgour stood beside his cabin-trunk puffing com¬ 
placently at his pipe, and watching with amused inter¬ 
est the panorama of life and colour and movement 
being enacted for his delectation on the quayside. 

As the schooner came to rest, his eyes roved swiftly 
over the moving mass of humanity, seeking the white 
faces of those he knew would be there to greet them 
among the multitude of natives. 

Vanda Hardie stood beside him. She was very pale, 
and now that the time had come to meet her family 
face to face she grew unaccountably afraid. 

“There’s father !” she whispered, touching her com¬ 
panion’s arm. 

“Where? Oh, I see—the parson?” 

“Yes; and I can see mother, and Lilian—my sister— 
and, I wonder who that tall, handsome man between 
them is, Monte? I wonder if he is the Governor?” 

“Probably—hullo, they’re waving to you!” 

On the quay, Lilian was saying to her mother: 

“I wonder who that young man is ? He’s talking to 
Vanda. I wonder if that's Mr. Kilgour?” 

The primitive gangway banged down upon the deck, 
and with a cheer the crowd parted to make way for the 
passengers. 

The first to leave the schooner was Lepmann, the 
trader, who, beaming lugubriously through his gold- 
rimmed spectacles, had hardly set foot upon the quay 
before Doris—bizarre and radiant in a highly-coloured 
European frock—was in his arms. 

“Come along!” cried Beaumont. “This way!” 

But the next passenger was a stranger: a tall, ugly 
Frenchman, who was volubly demanding of all and 
sundry where he might find ‘a neece littal apartment— 
pour one.’ 

“Who is that fellow?” asked the Pastor, gamely fol¬ 
lowing the more nimble American to the gangway. 


VANDA 


85 


Beaumont did not reply. For the first time, he had 
caught a glimpse of Vanda Hardie’s face. . . . 

“Gee!” he said to himself. “Some girl—this!” 

The next moment, the Pastor had caught his daugh¬ 
ter by the arms. 

“Now, Madam!” he cried. “Explain yourself!” 

Beaumont turned his head discreetly. 

“Excuse me,” said Kilgour politely, “but are you, by 
any chance—er—Beaumont ?” 

“Right, first time. Mr. Kilgour, I presume? Wel¬ 
come to Charteris.” 

“Thanks,” said Kilgour dryly, and: “Ah, there you 
are, Leturc. This is the Administrator—Mr. Beau¬ 
mont.” 

“Friend of yours?” said Beaumont to the younger 
man, 

Kilgour smiled. 

“Sort of. Fellow-passengers from Apia, you know.” 

Beaumont scrutinized the Frenchman through half- 
closed eyes. 

“Is it your first visit to the Islands, monsieur?” he 
queried courteously. 

Leturc gestured vigorously. 

“My first visit to the Islands? But no! I came out to 
them when I was a young man—a very young man. Is 
it that I have spent years in the South Seas and you 
ask me if it is my first visit? I have travelled? Ah, 
monsieur, there are few spots on our lovely globe where 
my feet have not trod. Africa, India, China, Europe, 
America. . . . Ah, but I know them all so well. 
Travelled? Pouf! The world is my home, monsieur— 
the big, round, lovely world!” 

His egoism was supreme. Beaumont repressed a 
smile. 

“I’ve knocked about a bit myself,” he said dryly. 


86 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


“Monsieur Leturc is re-visiting the scenes of his 
youth,” explained Kilgour, watching out of the comer 
of his eye the little group of which Vanda formed the 
centre. 

“Just a littal trip—a littal ‘vacation* as you Ameri¬ 
cans call it,” smiled Leturc. “Is it possible that I can 
secure an apartment here—in the village, say? One 
littal chamber—that is all I require.** 

“How long are you staying?” 

Leturc shrugged. 

“A week—a month—six months—I know not. I 
have the money, and the time —mon Dieu! a quarter of 
a lifetime! No, monsieur, I cannot tell you how long 
it is I shall sojourn on your beautiful littal island. 
But be it a week or a year I must secure that nice littal 
apartment, certamement /” 

Beaumont turned to Kilgour, who had discarded his 
pipe and was endeavouring to strike a match on the 
wooden quay to light a cigarette. 

“You will remember,” he said, “that in my letter I 
asked you to be my guest?’* 

Kilgour bowed assent. 

“Well, under the circumstances, I think you had bet¬ 
ter persuade your friend”—he indicated Leturc with a 
lean forefinger—“to share what primitive hospitality I 
am able to offer with you—for the time being, at least.” 

“Ah, but how kind . . .” murmured the Frenchman. 
“Monsieur, I am charmed. I thank you from the bot¬ 
tom of my heart.” He bowed elaborately, and com¬ 
menced—with curious incongruity—to hum the wistful 
motif of an old Buddhist love-song beneath his breath. 

Beaumont laughed, a shade scornfully. 

“The pleasure is mine,” he said. “Now Mr. Hardie 
is signalling to us. Leave your baggage on the quay 
and I will send my boy down for it later. Oh, don’t 
disturb yourselves, we are a very honest species of 


VANDA 87 

humanity on Charteris. No one will interfere with it, 
I assure you.” 

Assuming entire charge of the ceremony, the speaker 
proceeded to introduce to the Pastor Kilgour and the 
still beaming Leturc. 

As he shook hands with the father of the woman he 
loved, Monte Kilgour was not slow to detect a curious 
embarrassment, an odd hesitancy, for which he was 
quite at a loss to account, in the older man’s demeanour. 

“Surely,” thought the novelist, “he cannot possibly 
have learned of my attachment to Vanda—yet? I won¬ 
der if he thinks it strange that I should have come out 
to such a forgotten, isolated spot as this? Perhaps he 
has been made acquainted with the real reason for my 
visit; I shouldn’t be surprised; in a place like this I 
suppose everybody knows everybody else’s business, 
and Beaumont would probably enlighten him.” 
Actually: 

“I am certainly delighted to meet you, sir,” he said, 
warmly wringing Hardie’s outstretched hand. 

“Er—yes,” responded the Pastor, his eyes searching 
the young man’s lean, bronzed features as though he 
found something therein which occasioned him not a 
little surprise. “That is to say, so am I,” he added 
lamely. 

Kilgour’s professional curiosity was oddly piqued; he 
essayed to ascertain the cause underlying this ap¬ 
parent nervousness on the part of one who was so ob¬ 
viously a stranger to nerves, in any form whatever. 

“You appear,” he remarked laughingly, “to enter¬ 
tain doubts as to whether or not you have previously 
made my acquaintance?” 

Hardie started perceptibly. 

“I—I beg your pardon,” he said sharply. “Believe 
me, no such thought entered my head. I—beg your 
pardon.” 


88 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


“Oh, that’s all right,” retorted Kilgour easily. 

Beaumont, who had smilingly witnessed the dialogue, 
drew Leturc forward by the arm; Kilgour strolling 
away to where Vanda was conversing excitedly with 
Mrs. Hardie and her sister. 

“Pastor,” announced the Administrator, “this is 
Monsieur Jacques Leturc, who hopes to sojourn 
amongst us for a few weeks—vacationing.” 

“What?” exclaimed Hardie; and, turning swiftly: 
“My God— you!” 

Beaumont gazed at him in utter astonishment. Then, 
the Frenchman extending a plump, flabby hand: 

“You must really pardon me,” the niissionary fal¬ 
tered; “I—really—for the moment you reminded me, 
most vividly, of someone I knew long ago. Someone 
who is—dead.” He glanced towards Beaumont: “Upon 
my word, Howard, I do believe the excitement of my 
little daughter’s homecoming has caused me not only 
to dream dreams, but to see visions, also. . . .” 

It was well done: excellently done. But Beaumont 
was too shrewd and too astute to allow even the most 
subtle bluff to blind him to the truth. 

“Those two,” he said to himself, “are known to one 
another. Hardie, unless I was greatly mistaken, was 
literally dumbfounded.” He fell into step beside the 
objects of his thought, who were proceeding in the di¬ 
rection of the other members of the party, snatches 
of whose voluble conversation were clearly audible. 
“There’s some mystery here,” avowed the Adminis¬ 
trator privately; “and I wonder what the deuce it can 
be? . . . He wasn’t altogether delighted to see that 
fellow Kilgour, either. Now what the devil’s the mean¬ 
ing of it all?” 

When the three of them joined Vanda and her escort, 
Hardie, at a word from his wife, instructed Mauki, who 


VANDA 89 

had accompanied them down to the quayside, to attend 
to Vanda’s luggage. 

“It is a long walk to the parsonage,” he said to his 
daughter. “Do you think you will be able to manage 
it?” 

“Manage it?” she laughed. “Why, rather! I am 
just pining for exertion; life on the Rhoda was a 
cramped business at the best.” 

“We’ll get along then,” he smiled. 

Mrs. Hardie touched his arm. 

“Have you forgotten, Robert? You remember what 
we had decided to do?” 

“Dear me,” he replied, “I had forgotten. Beaumont 
—one moment, please.” 

“Sir?” said Beaumont at his elbow. 

“My wife wishes you to have supper with us at the 
parsonage; a little—er—celebration, you understand. 
Bring your guest with you, and—er—Monsieur Leturc, 
too, if he will come.” 

Beaumont grinned broadly. 

“You have anticipated me. I was about to ask you 
all to supper at my bungalow—however, we shall be 
delighted. I can vouch for my guests.” 

“Come along then,” cried Hardie, addressing his 
wife and daughters. “We have a long walk before us, 
and it is already late.” 

Kilgour slipped behind him to Vanda’s side; hurriedly 
he caught her hand: 

“Till we meet,” he whispered, and was gone. 

Waiting until the others had commenced to move 
away, the girl opened her fingers ... in the palm of 
her hand lay the small, crushed head of a hyacinth. . . . 

“Do hurry up!” called Lilian sharply, and—to Mrs. 
Hardie: “By the way, mother mine, have you by any 
chance noticed that Mr. Kilgour is rather like Gerald 
Randall? They both have exactly the same eyes—grey 


90 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


and very steady—and the same shaped mouth—bleak, 
and rather grim in repose, but elfish— PticJcish .—and 
whimsical when they smile. Of course, Monte Kilgour 
is only a boy, but—well, it’s almost startling . . . 
until you look twice!” 

“You silly girl . . .” responded her mother, laugh¬ 
ing. “What mil you say next?” 


XI 


THE FIRST THREADS 

“Surely you’re not going to wear that?” cried Lilian. 

Her sister eyed the flimsy evening gown she had just 
laid on the bed with dismay. 

“Why not?” she said. 

Lilian shrugged her shoulders. 

“Well—it’s not at all suitable.” 

Vanda bit her lip. 

“I’m sorry; what shall I wear, then?” 

“I usually wear just a plain foulard or—or a 
jumper.” 

“I’ve several jumpers in my box.” 

“We’d better have a look at them.” 

Kneeling by her cabin-trunk, the younger girl ex¬ 
tracted a number of parcels neatly made up in tissue 
paper. Opening one of these, she held up the con¬ 
tents for inspection. . . . Beneath the crumpled tissue 
paper in the box, and peeping demurely from beneath 
its folds, Lilian caught a transient glimpse of a soft 
chinchilla coat. 

“Heavens!” she said, inspecting the jumper with eyes 
that almost protruded. “What a low neck! My dear, 
you can’t wear that!” 

“I thought most people preferred ‘low necks.’” 

“Oh, well, of course—if you look at it that 
way. . . .” 

“How do you ‘look at it’?” 

“Refinement is always my first consideration,” said 
Lilian in her most superior tone. 

“Is this jumper—er—unrefined, then?”—sweetly. 

91 


92 THE FOREST OF FEAR 

“It’s positively indecent!” exclaimed Lilian explo¬ 
sively. 

“Then I shall wear it.” 

• “But—what will father say?” 

“Not the faintest. What time’s supper?” 

“Supper is at nine. We usually have it quite two 
hours earlier. Of course, your coming has altered our 
arrangements slightly.” 

“Of course,” said Vanda ruefully. 

If the situation had not been so ludicrous, she would, 
she felt certain, have burst into tears there and then. A 
few moments later, as she slipped her outre garment 
over her shapely gold head, Mrs. Hardie entered the 
room. 

“Are you girls nearly ready? Mr. Beaumont and the 
others have arrived; father is talking to them on the 
verandah. My dear, what a perfectly charming colour. 
Wherever did you buy such a dainty thing?” 

“Fifth Avenue,” said Vanda, listlessly. “I’m glad 
you like it, mother.” 

“It’s sweet, delightful—like you, dear.” 

Impulsively she kissed the girl’s warm cheek. 

“Oh, dear,” thought the latter wildly, “am I going 
to cry?” But the crisis was averted, and with a shy, 
tremulous smile, she returned the kiss. 

“I—I’m afraid most of my things are a bit—modern. 
But what could I do? Everybody told me the Islands 
were absolutely up-to-date in everything now.” 

“Not quite everything, dear. Lilian will initiate you 
into our customs; won’t you, Lilian?” 

“Yes,” assented Lilian, thinking absently of Doris’s 
Mother Hubbard, and of the bare, brown legs visible 
beneath the edge of its skirt. 

When they joined the group already assembled on the 
verandah they found the Pastor in desultory conversa¬ 
tion with Kilgour, while the Administrator was listen- 


THE FIRST THREADS 


93 


ing, with courteous attention, to the story of Leturc’s 
wild and reckless youth. But even his eyes wandered 
from the speaker’s face, as they caught sight of Vanda 
Hardie. 

“Here are the ladies,” he said, and rose, offering his 
chair to the girl. 

“Lilian, would you mind telling Mauki we are quite 
ready?” asked Mrs. Hardie. 

Lilian, who had hardly crossed the threshold of the 
French window, drew in her breath. 

“Certainly, mother.” 

When she returned, a moment or two later, she found 
that the party had made a move to the large, plain deal 
table, which had been laid in readiness for the meal by 
Mrs. Hardie’s careful hands. Her pale grey eyes sur¬ 
veyed the group through half-closed lids. Vanda was 
sitting next to Kilgour, with Beaumont on her left. Her 
father occupied the place of honour at the head of the 
table, while her mother sat opposite him, concealed be¬ 
hind an imposing barricade of cups, plates of cake and 
fruit, and the inevitable urn. The only vacant chair 
faced her sister and her two cavaliers, and was placed 
next to Leturc. With a slight qualm of resentment, she 
sat down. 

“This is indeed pleasant, mademoiselle,” murmured 
a soft, ingratiating voice in her ear. 

She started, and laughed: embarrassed. 

“Oh, it is good of you to say so. What will you 
have?” 

Across the table, she was conscious, vaguely and un¬ 
easily conscious, of her sister’s eyes. She looked up 
. . . and met their cool, blue softness. In the gentle, 
effulgent glow of the verandah lamps the younger 
woman looked very beautiful. So beautiful, that Lilian 
experienced a sudden, sharp pang—almost like a sword 


94? 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


thrust. Was it jealousy? Was it hate? Was it 
prescience? Was it fear? 

She knew not. She glanced, surreptitiously, at her 
father. He was staring, with a curious, fascinated 
stare, at this child of his who had so suddenly descended 
upon his simple household out of the exotic whirlpool 
of life in a great city. Stepped, as it were, from out 
the tumult of Manhattan into the warm peace of the 
Islands as one might step across the swaying bridge of 
Destiny. . . . 

“Lord, but I certainly miss New York,” said Kilgour, 
irrelevantly. 

Lilian, watching, saw his eyes meet Vanda’s. 

“So do I,” said the girl, and, impulsively: “Monte, 
why not tell them what happened to me in the Cafe Of 
The Green Dragon? They may as well know just what 
made me decide to quit New York for a time.” 

There was a sudden silence. Hardie’s eyes narrowed; 
Beaumont’s lips twisted sardonically; Lilian and her 
mother waited, breathless. Only Leturc continued 
eating unconcernedly. 

“Yes,” said Kilgour at last. And when he spoke, it 
seemed to Lilian that his voice drifted down to them 
from somewhere far away. 

Then the Pastor broke in: 

“What an extraordinary name. Might one inquire 
what this establishment might be?” 

But, this time, Kilgour was on his guard. He laughed 
boyishly. 

“Oh, just an eating-house in Chinatown, that’s all. 
Fashionable people—sightseers—who pride themselves 
on being outrageously eccentric, make rather a habit 
of going there. Between you and me the majority of 
them are insane!” 

“All artistes are mildly insane really, aren’t they?” 
supplemented Vanda, appealing to the speaker. 


THE FIRST THREADS 95 

“Then am I sitting next to a lunatic ?” queried Beau¬ 
mont facetiously. “Gracious!” 

“Silly!” said Lilian, endeavouring to catch his eye. 

“I have only my partner’s word for it,” he assured 
her solemnly. 

The company broke into laughter. The crisis was 
averted and everybody breathed freely again. 

“What a corpulent banana,” remarked Beaumont 
inanely, helping himself to the fruit. He felt acutely 
sorry for the girl at his side; he realized that she had 
made a slip—a very unfortunate slip indeed—and, 
knowing the Pastor as he did, he felt that explanations 
might be called for later. At the moment, he was de¬ 
termined to sink the incident into a well-needed oblivion. 

“I heard rather a good story the other day,” he 
went on, dexterously opening up the golden fruit. He 
paused—suddenly realized where he was—flushed 
slightly—and commenced to recount a very different 
anecdote to the one he had had in mind when he first 
spoke. 

The story was certainly funny—uproariously funny. 
Even the Pastor so far forgot himself as to lean back in 
his chair and guffaw like a schoolboy. Mrs. Hardie and 
Kilgour became weak with laughter: even Lilian smiled. 

“I will tell you another presently,” he assured them. 
“Miss Hardie, may I pass you the dessert ?” 

The Pastor folded his paper serviette: a luxury Mrs. 
Hardie reserved exclusively for such nights as the Ad¬ 
ministrator condescended to spend at the parsonage. 

“By the way,” he beamed, leaning forward over the 
table in order that he might the more easily disentangle 
his hidden legs without attracting the attention—and 
consequent ironic mirth—of his elder daughter. “By 
the way, Vanda, you might favour us yourself with an 
account of your—er—experience in the Cafe Of The 
Green Dragon. Why put Mr. Kilgour to unnecessary 


96 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


trouble, when we are all anxious to hear from your own 
lips the reason why you decided to ‘quit’ New York, as 
you so eloquently stated it a moment ago. I fail, per¬ 
sonally, to see just what connection there can be be¬ 
tween a doubtful caravanserai in Chinatown and your 
decision to return to the bosom of your family.” 

Beaumont, absently examining the monogram en¬ 
graved on a slender fruit-knife, grinned to himself. 

“I thought the old man wouldn’t let that pass,” he 
said beneath his breath. 

Vanda laughed: that silvery, infectious ripple of mer¬ 
riment so curiously reminiscent of sweet, pealing bells. 

“There really isn’t much to tell,” she said; “at least, 
when I assume the role of raconteur . Now Monte—Mr. 
Kilgour—could make your respective scalps bristle 
with what was, after all, a mere nothing: a trivial 
incident.” 

Kilgour chuckled. 

“I will not deny the soft impeachment,” he retorted 
blandly, “but, as it happens, sensational fiction was not 
in the market when I bade New York au revoir. I am 
specializing in the analysis of abstruse personalities at 
the moment.” 

“That is a thing in which I have always specialized,” 
interposed Beaumont. “You see, many years ago, before 
I entered the field of Administrative labour for my 
country, I had the good fortune—or otherwise—to be 
attached to a certain Department of the United States 
Secret Service, and, earlier still, I had a spell with 
Pinkertons. In my capacity of Investigator, I dis¬ 
covered psychology to be a most absorbing pastime.” 

Kilgour’s eyebrows rose. 

“Really? So you have been a sleuth-hound in your 
day? How very interesting! You must recount me 
some of your experiences when you have an hour or two 
to spare. As an author, I should undoubtedly find them 


THE FIRST THREADS 97 

useful from the point of view of obtaining ‘copy*—my 
eternal Quest; as Miss Vanda will tell you.” 

“I should be delighted,” acquiesced Beaumont, who 
felt himself more than a little attracted to this frank, 
clever-faced young man. “You see, I am a sleuth- 
hound, as you call it, yet, And now—will Miss Vanda 
favour us?” 

Colouring slightly beneath the calm, unwavering 
scrutiny of her father, the girl recounted, briefly, the 
story of her escapade with Hussein in the East-Side 
Cafe. She avoided mentioning the Semitic musician’s 
name or profession, however: partly fearing that 
Hardie might be tempted to adverse criticism of her 
choice of companionship, and partly because she was 
anxious to exonerate Gerald Randall from any charge 
of laxity in thus permitting her to wander, unchaper¬ 
oned, about the lower quarters of New York during the 
small hours, and with a comparative stranger. The 
narrative concluded: 

“The extraordinary thing to me,” she said flatly, “is 
that this mysterious Chinaman gave me no clue as to 
his identity-” 

“Yen How is too wily to play into his victim’s hands 
like that,” scoffed Leturc . . . and instantly tipped 
his dessert-plate over the edge of the table, where it 
broke, loudly, into fragments. 

He stooped to retrieve the remnants, and when he re¬ 
appeared to their gaze—his face flushed so dully that 
only one man present perceived the change of coun¬ 
tenance—he broke into a veritable torrent of apologies: 
so that, the incident itself momentarily forgotten, all 
—with the solitary exception of Beaumont—were soon 
laughing heartily at his discomfiture. 

When silence again fell upon the little gathering, the 
Administrator peered deliberately across the table, and: 

“Is it not strange he queried suavely, “that Mon- 



98 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


sieur should be acquainted with the name of Miss 
Hardie’s rescuer—this wealthy Oriental who drove her 
to her home in his automobile?” 

Leturc shifted in his chair, and, for a single, breath¬ 
less moment, the two men regarded each other with nar¬ 
rowed, antagonistic eyes. 

The Frenchman was not handsome. His face was 
pale, and though there was little enough of it the flesh 
there seemed to sag—forming curious, criss-cross wrin¬ 
kles and lines. He was slightly older than the Pastor, 
and he stooped a little ... an odd, repulsive stoop 
that somehow seemed to suggest a hidden deformity be¬ 
neath his loose white-drill clothing. His hair was crisp 
and long, iron-grey in colour, and falling with a rather 
surprising sweep low over his forehead. He had a habit 
of pushing this wayward lock back with his hand when 
he spoke. When he was enraged, it spread broadly 
across his forehead and over his eyes, shaking gro¬ 
tesquely, and giving him a singularly apish expression. 

Rut it were false to imagine that his hair concealed 
his eyes under these circumstances. He had extraor¬ 
dinary eyes—green, and changing as a cat’s. Beau¬ 
mont, staring intently, made a mental note that they 
were the sort of eyes one associates with a hypnotist 
or a mesmerist. 

Nothing ever obscured those eyes. They hardly ever 
looked at you directly, but always you felt that they 
were upon you: appraising you, mocking you, reading 
your inmost thoughts. When they did look at you 
squarely, unless you were an unusually strong-minded 
man or woman, you felt an inexplicable access of un¬ 
easiness, of weakening vital power. . . . Beaumont’s 
surmise was correct; how correct it was not given to 
him to know just then. 

And now, face to face with one whom he knew in¬ 
stinctively to be as clever as he was himself cunning, 


THE FIRST THREADS 


99 


Jacques Leturc endeavoured to cloak behind that veiled, 
antagonistic stare the thoughts revolving in his 
brain. . . . 

The tension snapped. Almost harshly, he addressed 
the American: 

“Monsieur assumes too much. My recent observation 
referred, not to the wealthy Oriental who rescued Mad’- 
moiselle Hardie from her awkward predicament, but to a 
Chinese friend of mine whose manner is sometimes sim¬ 
ilarly unconventional.” He bowed sardonically. 

“H'm.” Beaumont cleared his throat. “As it hap¬ 
pens, I have myself frequently heard in the past, from 
my late colleagues, of a certain celebrated Chinese gen¬ 
tleman whose name, oddly enough, was identical with 
that of your friend— 4 Yen How.’ The coincidence is 
certainly curious, but the illustrious personage to whom 
I refer was a Mandarin of high rank who presided over 
the activities of an exceedingly small Tong Society or 
Brotherhood. Contrary to that high principle upon 
which a Tong is primarily founded—namely, the pro¬ 
tection and mutual benefit of its various members—the 
organization I mention existed solely for the purpose 
of instituting and carrying into action the many ne¬ 
farious schemes of its Chief. I believe the Ordinary 
membership was limited to a hundred, or thereabouts, 
and the Rules and Laws under which it was operated 
were singular to a degree. For instance, in addition to 
its limited membership, such term of membership en¬ 
dured only for a matter of a few years. Upon expira¬ 
tion of their term, Ordinary ex-members were, there¬ 
fore, sworn, under pain of instant and terrible death, 
never to reveal the secrets and activities of the Tong. 
Furthermore, each member, including the Chief and his 
two or three High Officials, was branded upon the body 
with the Sign of the Tong . A gruesome business!” 

“How very odd,” put in Kilgour. “I am intrigued 


100 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


in spite of myself. What on earth was the name of this 
macabre Society?” 

Beaumont lit a cigarette, mechanically passing his 
case to the speaker. “The Broken Joss-Stick Tong” 
he answered shortly. 

“Odder still,” grimaced the novelist. “What is the 
point exactly? I mean, what is a joss-stick, anyway; 
and why should it be broken ?” 

The Administrator sighed wearily. Into his astute 
brain there had leapt a sudden, paralysing suspicion, 
and he was anxious for the party to break up in order 
that he might retire to the solitude of his own home in 
order to think the situation over calmly, and at length. 

“Oh, I don’t really know,” he responded, blowing a 
thin plume of smoke into the still, hot air. “I have 
heard that it owes its origin to an age-old Manchu 
legend, stating that the founder of the Society once paid 
an incognito visit to Confucius to consult with the sage 
upon a matter affecting the welfare of his ancient and 
honourable House. The learned Yogi's answer was not 
pleasing to the Chinaman—and in a fit of insane rage, 
he drew a scarlet pagan joss-stick from his sleeve and 
hurled it into the Prophet’s revered face, bruising him, 
and breaking the joss-stick. 

“Now, what do you gentlemen say to a stroll home¬ 
ward? It is a truly wonderful night. All the faery- 
artists of the South Seas have blended together to do 
you and your companions honour, and bid you ‘Wel¬ 
come,’ Miss Vanda.” 

He pushed his chair away from the table, and gazed 
out over the verandah rail at the sleeping island, fast 
turning to a glory of purple shadow and silver fire as 
the moon—a pale, ethereal goddess—rose from the 
water and mounted the heavens as though ascending the 
stairway of a dream. 

Kilgour, however, seemed in no great haste to depart; 


THE FIRST THREADS 


101 


which was not, perhaps, altogether surprising. He had 
been busily exchanging flippancies with Lilian and 
Vanda, and, at the Administrator’s words, looked up 
quickly: 

“By the way, Mr. Hardie, I take it that you are 
aware of the object of my visit to Charteris? I must 
not further accept your hospitality without explaining 
my presence here to some extent.’’ 

“You—wish to visit the grave of your father: Elmer 
Kilgour? Beaumont informed me of that fact. We— 
he or I—will show you the way to the Cairn whenever 
convenient to you.” 

“Certainly,” concurred Beaumont, without removing 
his gaze from the witching panorama visible beyond the 
verandah rail. 

“Thanks,” said Kilgour warmly. “You-” he 

paused irresolutely; then: “You, of course, all know 
that my father lost his life upon this island in a very 
mysterious manner. He was a South Sea Trader, and, 
in company with several others of his fraternity, es¬ 
sayed to discover this legendary Hoard of Gems sup¬ 
posed to be concealed in the mountains yonder. How 
he met his death, and what took place on the island, I 
have never been able to ascertain. The theory is—and 
Beaumont’s reply to my letter confirmed that theory— 
that he was slain, together with all his companions, by 
natives. You have dwelt many, many years in the 
Coral Seas—you will undoubtedly yourself have heard 
the story many a time?” 

Hardie rose, and inclined his head. 

“As you say, many a time. My own acquaintance 
with the Pacific has been, to all intents and purposes, a 
lifelong one. I was— myself —a Trader in these lati¬ 
tudes before I became a Missionary. ... You may 
not have known that fact.” 

“I did not,” said Kilgour. 



102 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


“As such—as a Trader—I have heard the story of 
your father’s Expedition frequently. Especially in the 
old days, when it ranked as something of a cause celebre 
in the annals of this mighty Ocean’s Mysteries. But” 
—the speaker passed a hand across his eyes—“you can 
accept my assurances that there is nothing mysterious 
about the affair at all. Your theory—the theory of a 
native massacre: uprising: skirmish—is the only correct 
one. There is no other explanation. A party of men 
such as that accompanying Elmer Kilgour’s Expedi¬ 
tion is not wiped utterly out of existence by any super¬ 
natural agency; not even by plague. The supernatural, 
to my mind, is non-existent save in the brains of the ab¬ 
normal and insane: and plague—the only other ex¬ 
planation—would not take so terrible a toll in so short 
a time. The supposition of wreckage was, of course, 
at once annihilated by the discovery of your father’s 
sloop, the Albatross , floating placidly some sixty or 
seventy miles out in mid-ocean, abandoned, but in¬ 
tact. No, sir, there is, as I have said, but one 
explanation-■” 

“Wholesale murder!” exclaimed Leturc, laughing 
hoarsely. 

Hardie returned his insolent stare in silence; then: 

“If you care to put it that way, yes— murder he 
repeated quietly. 

Some fifteen minutes later, as he bade ‘Adieu’ to the 
Hardies at the small wicket-gate of the parsonage, the 
Frenchman said: 

“Monsieur was surprised to find that the grave— 
sometimes—gives up its dead, no?” 

The Pastor drew him brusquely aside. 

“You arch-fiend,” he whispered in the other’s ear. 
“You double-dyed blackguard! Hold your peace! 
Or-” 





THE FIRST THREADS 


103 


Leturc’s moist lips curled in a jeering smile, as: 

“Monsieur would do well to pause awhile and think 
ere he speak of my ‘peace. 5 But there, I would not 
alarm Monsieur unduly; I shall not chatter, have no 
fear. Before many days—maybe—I shall have need of 
Monsieur. . . . Then, maybe, he shall deem it advis¬ 
able to pray me hold my peace. . . . 55 

Passing through the gate, he blundered out upon the 
winding track leading down the hillside. Ahead, he 
could descry the ebon forms of Kilgour and the Admin¬ 
istrator silhouetted against the moon-bathed sky. 

Raising his clenched fist, he hurled, in muttered 
venom, a stream of oaths at the latter’s broad, muscu¬ 
lar back: 

“Mon dieul But for you, the wagging of my tongue 
in yonder hovel would have passed unnoticed! A thou¬ 
sand curses on you, mine host. ... A thousand fiery 
curses. . . .” 

Blaspheming thus to himself, he stumbled on down 
the treacherous, rock-ribbed pathway. 




XII 


LEE WONG 

To Leturc had been allotted a small room at the rear of 
the Administrator’s large bungalow. It was barely fur¬ 
nished, for, as Lilian Hardie had once had occasion to 
remark, one must not expect luxuries in the South Seas. 

It contained a camp-bed, equipped with an effective 
mosquito net, a cupboard for clothes, a wash-handstand 
of sorts, and a couple of ’Varsity wicker chairs. 

On a star-splendid evening, almost a week after J:he 
events narrated in the last chapter, Leturc sprawled in 
one of these, with his feet upon the other. On the wash- 
handstand stood a decanter and a syphon. Leturc 
helped himself liberally. On the bare wooden floor, 
placed so that he could see it as he lounged in his chair, 
reposed a singular object ... a little wooden joss: a 
painted, putty Buddha. The door of the room was 
locked. From beyond the lattices came the drone of 
mosquitoes and the dim, far-away chant of the eternal 
reef. 

The Frenchman drained his glass—stared stupidly 
into it—and refilled it. Then he looked sardonically at 
the joss. 

“Well, littal master,” he said, in English, “was it a 
foolish thing to do ? They have made no sign . . . yet 
I cannot but lament that the white powder compelled 
my tongue to wag overmuch!” 

In the leaping light of the solitary, smoky lamp, the 
idol’s face seemed to leer up at him. 

104 


LEE WONG 105 

“You smile, my master,” continued Leturc. “Art 
thou, then, so well pleased?” 

With a sudden abrupt movement, he leant over the 
edge of the chair and picked the little image up. A 
moment or two he fondled it carefully with his hands, 
then laughing softly to himself he commenced to un¬ 
screw the head of the idol. 

There came a gentle tapping on the door. Leturc 
started violently, and sprang to his feet. 

“Who is that? What do you want?” 

Silence. 

“Yes?” cried Leturc. “I am here. Who is that?” 

No answer. 

Quickly concealing the Buddha in one of his disor¬ 
derly cabin-trunks, he crossed the room and unlocked 
the door. 

On the reed-mat outside, he found, crouched, Beau- 
months Chinese ‘boy. 5 

“What do you want?” he demanded. 

The ‘boy 5 —he was fiendishly ugly, and middle-aged— 
kow-towed decorously. 

“Me hab heap plenty talkee with you? 55 he queried. 

“What about? I don’t want to talk to you!” 

“No?” smiled the Chinaman impishly. 

“Ma fois! I do not understand—go away!” 

“Lee Wong hab heap plenty to say,” he protested. 

“Go away, I tell you!” 

Leturc tried to close the door; to his surprise Lee 
Wong inserted his foot between it and the lintel. Then 
he spoke again—in the pure mandarin patois of his own 
province far away in the East, half across the world. 

“Fool! Open the door! Is it so little that thou 
understandest ? In the name of the illustrious Yen 
How, I bid thee permit me to enter!” 

Leturc staggered back into the room, his green eyes 
almost starting from their sockets. 


106 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


“Yen How, sajest thou? Yen How? . . . What 
dost thou know of the great Yen How? Dog!” 

He spoke in Chinese. 

“Peace. Peace,” smiled Lee Wong. “Only the fool 
maketh a loud noise with his tongue when his heart is 
sick within him.” 

Leturc shuffled to the wash-handstand and poured 
himself out a stiff whisky. His hands trembled so that 
he could hardly manipulate the syphon. 

Lee Wong, still smiling, closed and locked the door. 
Then, folding his arms, he stood and watched the 
Frenchman. 

Leturc sat down heavily in his basket chair. 

“Thou speakest in riddles, Lee Wong,” he said, 
making a desperate effort to recover his self-control. 

The Chinaman drew a cigarette from his capacious 
sleeve, sniffed it as though in anticipation and then, 
holding it in the flame of the smoky paraffin lamp, lit 
it. Leturc watched him with narrowed eyes. 

Seen thus in the flickering, uncertain light of the 
lamp, his oval, wrinkled face now vividly illumined, now 
vague in shadow, Lee Wong presented a singularly de¬ 
moniacal appearance; his eyelids moved incessantly, his 
lips were twisted into a sardonic smile around his 
cigarette. 

“What, under Heaven, do you want?” snarled the 
Frenchman, wincing before that eternal, half-veiled 
gaze. 

“The redness of the white man’s flesh is truly surpris¬ 
ing,” crooned Lee Wong. 

Leturc’s fingers clenched until the nails dug into the 
flesh. 

“What do you mean-?” he stammered. 

“Speak to me in mine own language,” said the 
Chinaman. “Even the boards of thy chamber have 
ears—mayhap.” 



LEE WONG 107 

Leturc darted a scared glance round the room, as: 

“Bare thy chest—fool!” commanded Lee Wong. 

“No!” cried Leturc. “No! I will not! I do not 
understand you, insolent dog!” 

Lee Wong removed his cigarette: his eyelids became 
still, the pupils themselves riveted on the perturbed 
Leturc; he laughed mirthlessly. 

“Verily the seal of the Broken Joss-Stick Tong is a 
thing to marvel at,” he scoffed. 

Leturc made a movement, as if about to rise; then 
apparently discretion overruled his original intention, 
and he sat still—a curiously cringing, beaten expres¬ 
sion on his face. 

“How didst thou know?” he asked, his voice low and 
guttural. “By Shiva, how didst thou know?” 

Wong shrugged. 

“Dost thou not wash before taking thy frequent de¬ 
partures to the house of the Christian preacher?” he 
said. 

“You—you spied on me, then?” 

“Not so. I sought only the hand of a comrade, the 
greeting of a friend . . . the minions of the illustrious 
Yen How, are they not as one in the glory of his 
service?” 

This time, Leturc did not hesitate. He sprang to his 
feet and clutched Lee Wong’s tunic as though to rip it 
open. His face was like paper. 

“You lie!” he cried. “Sapristi! You lie! Show me 
—show . . .” 

The Chinaman gently removed his clawing hand. 

“Peace. Wouldst waken those who slumber with thy 
babble? Verily wisdom is as far from thee as is a 
pleasing countenance.” 

For a moment Leturc looked as though he would have 
struck the gibing Oriental, then his arm fell to his side 
limp, as: 




108 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


“Only let me see,” he muttered sullenly, “and I will 
believe.” 

Smiling tolerantly, Lee Wong raised his tunic; be¬ 
neath it, Leturc could perceive his lean, scraggy body. 
For a moment, he could discern nothing save the harsh, 
wrinkled expanse of flesh, then as he peered yet closer 
his strange green eyes—feverishly alight—caught a 
glimpse of a thin, red weal running apparently across 
Lee Wong’s chest. Stretching out a nerveless hand, 
he lifted the thin garment yet a little higher- 

What followed was dramatic, unprecedented. 

Leturc reeled back as though struck in the face. 

“Mon Dieu!" he choked. “Mon Dieu! It is so! It 
is so! Thou hast spoken truly, Lee Wong. Verily thou 
hast spoken truly!” 

Lee Wong lowered his tunic. 

“For so praiseworthy an admission,” he said, “I 
would fain have handed to thee a Khata , a Scarf of 
Blessing, had I but possessed one.” He paused, smil¬ 
ing, then: 

“Is it not exceeding strange,” he crooned, “that 
thou—a white man—shouldst be a member of our illus¬ 
trious TongV ’ 

The ghost of a smile flickered across the French¬ 
man’s face. 

“The all-powerful Yen How, on whom Gotama 
Buddha himself is wont to gaze in wonder, generously 
waved aside the barrier of my nationality on account 
of the great and manifold services it has been my 
privilege to render him,” he said glibly. 

Lee Wong seated himself upon the edge of the camp- 
bed and lit another cigarette, the while regarding Le¬ 
turc with dull, tolerant eyes; then: 

“Wherefore comest thou here, then, stranger?” he 
queried. 

Leturc shifted uneasily. 


LEE WONG 


109 


“Knowest thou not that the Ambassadors of our 
Master sometimes have cause to travel the wide world 
round in his service?” he countered. 

“And that those upon whom his kingly eyes choose 
to fall in admiration and desire are scattered broadcast 
upon the face of the earth?” supplemented Lee Wong 
blandly. 

Leturc shrugged his curious, misshapen shoulders. 

“What meanest thou?” 

Lee Wong’s smile grew positively benignant in its 
blandness. 

“Truly the little golden one is more greatly to be 
desired than all the wealth concealed in the bowels of 
Alton Somne , the mysterious Temple of Gold?” he 
mocked. 

Still Leturc feigned bewilderment. The Chinaman 
spat impatiently upon the floor. 

“Fragile as the lily, fragrant as the rose ... all 
the lanterns of Peking could not illumine thy beauty 
more. The scents and spices of Cathay—the odours 
of Edom and Lebanon—these could not out-rival the 
perfume of thy sweet body: no silks, brocades, or 
rarest gossamer enhance the whiteness of thy flower- 
limbs. . . 

Leturc sipped his whisky in silence. 

The Chinaman, his momentary lapse from decorum 
ended, puffed at his cigarette. 

“Thou must exercise caution, my friend,” he said, 
after a little time. “The American, my master, hath 
eyes in the back of his head; and the boy in the room 
across yonder—my master’s guest—hath, I doubt not, 
kissed those ruby lips so strangely dear to Yen How, 
who hath yet to taste of their sweetness . . . and 
when a white man kisses a white woman, friend, thou 
knowest that he loves her and would fling his body pros- 


110 THE FOREST OF FEAR 

trate before wolves to save her from death! La! 
La! . . ” 

He laughed sibilantly: like the whisper of night winds 
across the reed-beds of a Malayan river. 

“I know—I know,” growled Leturc. 

As he spoke, Lee Wong leant forward across the foot 
of the bed, as though struck by a sudden thought. 

“In the solitudes of the ocean,” he said, “one hears 
nothing save the sobbing of the sea. Tell me! Where 
now doth the pre-eminently mighty Yen How make his 
abode? Few and far are his emissaries, and poor Lee 
Wong the humblest amongst those who have known the 
supreme privilege of being his follower. Tell me-” 

For a moment, Leturc seemed to hesitate; then drain¬ 
ing his glass, he acceded to the others request: 

“In the great, gay city of the East, to be sure. For 
where, if not in New York, would our Master find con¬ 
venient scope for his numerous activities ? Lo, like the 
little white ants which dwell among the garbage-heaps, 
he, in the hollow of whose hand lies the destiny of the 
members of the mysterious Broken Joss-Stick Tong , 
hides—a shadow in the city of shadows: in the dust-bin 
of the Old Quarter, where the grim walls of the tene¬ 
ments overhang the alleyways of his kingdom. He 
hides—a wraith: a ghoul . . . watching: waiting.” 

Even the impassive Lee Wong was impressed, and 
Leturc, his self-confidence completely restored, laughed 
almost good-humouredly. 

“The requirements of the excellent Yen How concern 
not his servitor. But know that, scarce one moon ago, 
our Chief was on a sudden smitten with a love-passion 
so overwhelming that for several nights he scarce could 
woo sleep at all—and that only with the seductive as¬ 
sistance of the poppy-pipe. From thy previous re¬ 
marks, Assumptive One, it is evident that thou hast 
rightly guessed the object of his revered affections: 



LEE WONG 


111 


the ‘golden one,’ la petite Americame , the little bonne 
bouche. . . . Understand, then, for various diplo¬ 
matic reasons it was not in accordance with the plans 
of Yen How that the Flower he so ardently desired 
should be plucked for him without delay: for she was 
jealously guarded in the domicile of her uncle, who is, 
in addition to being a fool, a person not a little es¬ 
teemed by his own countrymen. And, had she disap¬ 
peared, this superfluous relative would have turned 
loose the hounds of the Law to snuffle the fool-continent 
from end to end in search of her. Discovering, there¬ 
fore, by means of a littal judicious bribery, that the 
maiden was about to depart for these Southern seas, I, 
being high in my Master’s favour, was commissioned to 
follow and, when circumstances were most expedient, 
secure her for him. That, O witless Lee Wong, is the 
why and wherefore of my journey to Charteris. 

“Upon receiving the great Yen How’s august instruc¬ 
tions, I made haste to entrain for the Golden Gate, 
arriving there in time to embark upon the same vessel as 
la petite and her escort, an aged Missionary. I may 
add, for thy further mystification, I was not a little per¬ 
turbed to discover that the youngster, Monte Kilgour, 
formed one of the party. My meeting with him—and 
my subsequent appraisal of his errand—constitute a 
coincidence more credible in a volume of fiction than in 
real life. . . . Little is he aware, poor jackass, of the 
enlightenment I could afford him upon the problem so 
vexing his soul at this time! But there, that is no con¬ 
cern of thine, and I was a fool to tell thee.” 

He shook with suppressed mirth, and Lee Wong, 
delicately flicking his cigarette, asked a further 
question: 

“When thou hast obtained possession of the radiant 
Blossom of Young-Maidenhood, thou wilt return with 
her to New York?” 


112 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


Leturc checked his unholy merriment, and: 

“Not so,” he retorted, gesticulating contemptuously. 
“Even now, I doubt not, the fingers of Yen How are 
a-quiver to clasp that sylph-like form to his bosom; for 
an even stranger coincidence than the one I have just 
related to thee is found in the fact that my Master— 
at the time knowing nothing of the existence of Made¬ 
moiselle Yanda, as she is called—had, a week or so be¬ 
fore his meeting with her, arranged to voy&ge to the 
islands in this vicinity upon a certain secret errand, 
known only to two others beside himself.” 

“And the nature of that errand?” purred Lee Wong. 

“-Was to discover the whereabouts of that same 

treasure in searching for which Elmer Kilgour, the 
father of our youngster, lost his life many, many years 
ago, as you may already be aware. Even now, the 
Mandarin’s private yacht, equipped to the last detail 
for the task before her, may be steaming silently to¬ 
wards some lonely atoll near-by Charteris—there to 
await the arrival of myself and the woman her owner 
would, at this moment, sacrifice his right hand to 
possess!” 

Leturc laughed again as he completed the sentence. 
Lee Wong lit a third cigarette from the stump of the 
second. 

“So!” he said softly. 

The other nodded. 

“The bountiful Yen How hath decided to offer her 
his hand in marriage,” he explained. “He hath already 
bestowed his kingly condescension upon two white 
maidens. The beauty of this one hath scorched his 
soul. Great indeed will be my reward when I am able 
to usher the blushing maiden into the presence of his 
Excellency!” 

A gleam of avarice lit his strange green eyes a mo¬ 
ment, and died. . . . 



LEE WONG 


113 


Lee Wong smiled faintly, searching the puffed white¬ 
ness of the other’s face as though he sought to penetrate 
its mask. 

“In thy vanity,” he said, “thou didst speak earlier of 
the 6 great and manifold services’ which it had been thy 
privilege to render unto the illustrious Yen How. What 
was the nature of that service, Boastful One? That 
service which gained thee permanent membership of our 
Tong?” 

Leturc frowned in momentary anger as he detected 
the note of insolence lurking in the soft voice of the 
Chinese. Then, as quickly, he broke into a half-scorn¬ 
ful laugh, replying in English, for he was weary of this 
prolonged cross-examination. 

“The story is a simple one enough. Many years ago 
—six—ten—I know not—I was hunting a grisly—a 
black bear—near Llhasa, the lonely city of the Thibe¬ 
tan wilds. For many days—a week, perhaps, we had 
followed his trail, I and my comrades; and then one 
night it chanced that a cavalcade bound for the For¬ 
bidden City itself passed by our camp-fires and halted 
awhile to rest and break fast with us. A mighty Man¬ 
darin, it seemed, was on his way to the mysterious city 
of the plain, a Tong Chief, newly succeeded to his posi¬ 
tion, going thither to take counsel with the Dalai 
Llama. His journey was a secret one: his errand un¬ 
known. Silently, he and his retinue had crossed the 
frontier and set out beneath the stars. No gongs or 
drums or bells heralded that strange procession. Like 
creatures of the night, they descended into the circle of 
our firelight : little grinning, red devils, squirming dou¬ 
ble file behind a black draped howdah , borne by six 
men, in which, hidden from the eyes of the curious, the 
mighty Yen How reclined among his cushions: unseen, 
yet seeing all! 

“And suddenly, as we spake together—we and his 




114 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


followers—before the crimson pyre of our camp-fire— 
there came a shrill scream. . . . Mon Dieu! a scream 
that cut the night like the blue blade of an assassin’s 
knife! 

“In the glare of the burning scrub and brushwood, 
we beheld the howdah in which Yen How lay smoking 
peacefully his favourite hooka rock and sway as though 
shaken by the hand of some incensed god who had 
chanced upon us in his lonely wandering between the 
worlds. . . . 

“At first, we thought that a party of roving, hunger- 
desperate Tartars had espied our encampment and had 
attacked the howdah! I seized my rifle and ran towards 
the spot where it stood, my comrades at my heels, 
leaving the trembling Chinese surging about the fires in 
a very tumult of superstitious terror! 

“As I reached the howdah , and wrenching aside the 
black draperies sprang within, I beheld the cause of this 
mighty uproar. 

“On the floor of the howdah , writhing among the 
billowing feathers of his cushions, lay Yen How— 
clasped tight in the arms of the most enormous grisly I 
have ever seen! 

“For a moment it seemed impossible to shoot the 
maddened beast without the bullet also ploughing its 
way into the heart of the mandarin himself. Ma fois! 
In the melee , I knew not what to do. Then Yen How 
cried out with a great, rattling cry. . . . His face, 
turned to me in its agony, was purple, and blood gushed 
from his lips. In an instant, in the twinkling of an eye 
as they say, I had drawn the short dagger-knife which 
hung at my belt, and hurled myself upon the thing . . . 
plunging my weapon deep into the side till the blood 
pumped forth in a veritable torrent! Again and again 
I struck, in a frenzy of fear; and each time I probed 
the fountains of its life until, with a last choking bark, 


LEE WONG 115 

it rolled over on the heaped, scarlet feathers— 
dead!” 

Leturc laughed grimly. 

“That, Inquisitive One, is how I came to enter the 
service of my Master, the supreme Yen How—Chief of 
the Broken Joss-Stick Tong: and Ambassador of the 
great Lord of Boundless Light himself! Farewell!” 

Beaumont turned over indolently upon his large, 
comfortable truckle-bed, and smiled up at the grinning 
Mongoloid face bent above him. 

“I congratulate you, Lee Wong,” he said quietly. 
“Many are the services you have rendered me, and 
strange have been my requests. But you have never yet 
failed me. So be it—I shall not fail youP 

He extended a careless hand. 

“Not always shall thy days be spent in this oven; 
serving the white men who despise thee, and the brown 
men who fear thee. There shall be a cool paddy-field by 
the banks of a loved river; where the sun kisses the 
flowers by day, and the stars glass their faces by night. 
Where the caravans creak over the hills, and the temple 
bells call across the rice fields. And there shall be, 
mayhap, a gentle little fawn-eyed maiden to caress thee 
when the day’s toil is over; to lay garlands upon thy 
head, and anoint thy body with sweet oil; to light thy 
pipe and polish thy chopsticks, and—who knows ?—to 
bear thee children. . . . Continue to serve me but a 
little while longer, and these things shall be thine—for I 
have much gold, and there will be yet more when the 
Evil One who hath crossed my path shall pay the price 
of his wickedness. . . .” 

Silently, Lee Wong slipped to his knees by the bed¬ 
side, his dark, round-capped head bowed. 

A moment the American gazed at him, then laying a 
gaunt hand upon his shoulder he shook him gently. 


116 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


“Arise now; and remove that abominable hiero¬ 
glyphic from off thy chest. It were ill indeed for a 
servant of mine to wear upon his body the mark of so 
great a shame!” 

So Lee Wong, the tong -man who was in reality not a 
tong -man at all, but only a humble and devoted servant 
of his white master, rose to his feet, and, taking the 
sponge which the latter now handed to him, carefully 
washed away the design Beaumont himself had some 
two hours earlier painted upon his chest in red ink! 


XIII 


THE “kITTIWAKe” 

One morning, a few weeks after the memorable night of 
her sister’s arrival at Charteris, Lilian Hardie was a 
little surprised to find, when she entered the tiny ante¬ 
room adjacent to her dispensary, that her prospective 
patients for the day were but three in number—a white 
girl, the recently-married daughter of one of the 
traders down by the quay, and two natives. As medical 
officer for the whole of the island, her list of patrons 
was usually lengthy; and, it being almost a superhuman 
task to convince a native suffering from indigestion that 
he is not expiring, or likely to expire for some time to 
come, her duties frequently occupied the whole morn¬ 
ing, and often the evening as well. In the afternoon, of 
course, no one, save perhaps a coolie, ever works at any¬ 
thing, and a coolie can only be induced to make himself 
useful by the threat of the rope’s end or a beating. 
On Charteris flogging and beating were taboo. 

To Lilian, then, this prospect of a comparatively idle 
day was alluring. 

She interviewed the white girl first. 

“What is the matter with you, Minnie?” 

Minnie blushed scarlet. The interview quickly 
terminated. 

One native woman required a potion to soothe and 
assuage what to Lilian’s sage and seasoned brain ap¬ 
peared to be acute flatulence in the region of the heart, 
and the other, grinning broadly, exhibited with pardon¬ 
able pride a sprained wrist. 

117 


118 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


Having given the benefit of a little private counsel 
to Minnie, a bottle of orange-coloured liquid to one 
woman, and two rolls of bandaging and lint to the 
other, she entered her patients on her books, locked up 
her wooden shed, which stood close to the tin chapel in 
the centre of the village, and prepared to make her way 
down to the beach to join her sister, who had gone 
ahead to keep an appointment with Kilgour. 

When one spends practically one’s life in the midst 
of beauty, even beauty is taken as a matter of course. 
There are few sights on earth more delightful to the 
eye than the prospect presented by a Pacific island 
beach in the early morning—before the sun spills his 
heat upon the world in riotous abandon: before the 
white acres of sand scorch the sole of the foot like a 
carpet of fire, and the air is tremulous as fluid with the 
hot, incinerating breath of noon. 

Emerging from the greensward which gives way to 
the bush and undergrowth of the interior, one beholds 
the white ribbon of sand curving away on either side as 
far as the eye can reach, like the horns of an inverted 
new moon. Almost imperceptibly from this heaped, 
ashen sickle of dust, the coral springs, many-hued, to 
form the edge of the lagoon: its piers and promontories 
jutting into the water like slender fingers; whilst lower 
down it forms a delicate carpet over which the eternal 
harlequinade of fishes moves and passes, darts and 
sways. 

A lagoon, whether it be situated in the centre of a 
diminutive ring-atoll, or edging the larger, irregular 
shores of an island such as Charteris, is a perfect 
natural lake of changing colour: now blue as the eyes of 
a young girl, now grey and tragic as the eyes of a 
woman of whom love has made a mockery and a deceit. 

But when one is able to stroll daily along the fringes 
of one, listening to the lullaby of the reef beyond until 


THE “KITTIWAKE” 


119 


the very sound satiates the senses by its continual, 
deep-toned persistence, well—one no more appreciates 
the exquisite loveliness of it than one admires a level- 
crossing or a gasometer! Even the witchery, the 
glamour of the Pacific palls. . . . 

Yet you cannot leave the Pacific, once you have dwelt 
there. You cannot square your shoulders and pack 
your belongings and say: ‘Now I am going home , for 
good. I am returning to civilization. I am weary of 
these indolent dream-days: this childish, futile existence. 
I am going home!’ You may square your shoulders, 
you may even pack your belongings, you may even set 
sail for home, and—you may even reach there. But 
you will return. If you have lived but a few brief years 
in the Pacific you will return. . . . 

The sun-washed beaches will call to you; the whisper¬ 
ing palm vanes will call to you; the clean, scent-laden 
Trades will caress your cheeks; the salt-tang of the 
barrier reef burn on your lips; the spindrift damp 
again your hair . . . and you will return. 

You will answer that calling dream-voice. You will 
start and tremble in an ecstasy of wonder and dread, 
and you will go . . . . 

Yes, you will go. From across all the world the spell 
of the Islands will reach out its phantom wings and en¬ 
close you. You cannot—dare not—resist. 

The tinkle of the steel guitars will lull again your 
alien senses. Soft, dusky fingers twine once more lets 
within your hair. Dear, tender bosoms pillow your 
tired head . . . 

If your manhood is a doubtful quantity and you are 
too young to boast a soul, do not venture out among 
the Islands. It is death. 

When she reached the beach, Lilian found it gay with 
morning revellers. Down by the lagoon, a bevy of 
jostling native girls, vivid in gaily-decorated Mother 



120 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


Hubbards, plunged and splashed and danced in the 
glorious abandon of their youth. 

Insensibly, her lips tightened, a swift pang of she 
knew not what stabbing her heart. Was it the sight of 
youth, if not entirely naked at least unashamed, which 
thus touched a hidden chord of her spirit and set it 
jangling discordantly? she wondered. 

She could see no sign of Vanda, though she searched, 
with her keen eyes, the whole visible expanse of the 
shore. Nor was Kilgour anywhere to be seen. Shrug¬ 
ging her shoulders, she was about to turn away, when a 
girl—her body glistening with spray so that it re¬ 
sembled dull, liquid gold—ran up to her, and addressed 
her in broken English. 

At her words, Lilian’s eyes wandered again in the 
direction of the lagoon. The girl pointed with one 
rounded, outstretched arm. 

Through a gap in the reef came something white. 
Something small and white, and moving at a great pace. 

Lilian laughed slightly. 

Of course. It was Beaumont’s little motor launch, 
the Kittmake. She might have guessed that he would 
have been out for an early-morning trip. Thanking the 
girl, who ran away to rejoin her comrades, she sat down 
in the shade of the massive ama of a canoe drawn up 
high and dry on the beach, to await his return ... 
for Vanda would in all probability be with him, and 
Kilgour, and- 

She wondered whether Doris would be there, too. 
Doris Lepmann—in her preposterously inadequate 
Mother Hubbard. Sitting beside the American at the 
wheel . . . talking to him . . . employing all her 
physical powers of attraction to delight and allure him. 

The thought was not pleasant. 

So rapidly was the little launch moving that, in a 
very few minutes, she could hear the throb of its per- 


THE “KITTIWAKE” 


121 


fectly-tuned engine. Beaumont was an experienced 
pilot, and the watcher by the canoe felt no alarm as she 
saw the little craft curve in a giddy semicircle as it 
neared the shore. 

A great billowing cloud of spray surged from the 
bow, almost drenching the occupants—Lilian saw that 
they were four in number—as with engine switched off 
the little launch came to rest, dipping gently, broadside 
to the shore. A thin, blue haze of exhaust drifted lazily 
over the water. Beaumont, at the wheel, stood up and 
waved a salute. Then, making a megaphone of his 
hands, he hailed the girl. 

“Ahoy, there, Lilian! Would you like a trip? We’re 
just running along the coast.” 

Lilian had responded, and had commenced to cross 
the intervening stretch of sand between the beached 
canoe and the lagoon, before she realized, almost with¬ 
out any sense of surprise, that Beaumont’s fourth pas¬ 
senger actually was Doris. 

However—the Administrator had restarted his en¬ 
gine and was running the launch as close inshore as was 
possible without fouling the keel on the sharp edges of 
the coral vanes. 

“Take your shoes off,” he called cheerfully. “You’ll 
have to wade.” 

Lilian complied meekly. A few moments later he 
was assisting her into the gently-rocking craft, while 
the others rearranged themselves on the narrow plank 
seat in the stern-sheets. 

“Sorry we missed you,” grinned Beaumont. “We’ve 
had a glorious little run for the open sea. Unfor¬ 
tunately, these excellent if over-cautious young people 
misunderstood my intentions and thought I was kid¬ 
napping them! Their manifold persuasions constrained 
me to return.” He glanced inquiringly at Vanda. 

“Miss Hardie, will you take the wheel and endeavour 


122 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


to follow the qoastline as far as that promontory you 
can just see over there?” 

Lilian looked at her sister’s flushed, radiant face: 
haloed in its fringe of dishevelled, wind-blown hair. 

“But Vanda can’t pilot a motor-boat,” she said. 
“Can you, Vanda?” 

“She is going to try,” said Beaumont composedly. 

Kilgour removed his pipe. 

“Tragedy in the Tropics,” he remarked caustically. 
“I foresee gigantic headlines and blurred blocks. Beau¬ 
mont, I have misjudged you: you are a man of diaboli¬ 
cal intent; your hospitality is a lie; henceforth and 
forever my spirit, and the spirits of my companions, 
will haunt your bedchamber o’ nights. Proceed with 
your suicidal projects, but—let the end be soon. Sus¬ 
pense, at any time, is agony!” 

Vanda laughed. 

“I will try— now!” she said. 

Kilgour gestured weakly. 

“Loud murmurs of dissent,” he smiled. “Miss Lilian, 
have you by any chance a match?” 

Lilian, stooping to fasten her discarded sandals, 
glanced up. 

“I’m sorry-” 

He grinned. 

“Have you two, then?” he asked facetiously. 
“Hullo!-” 

The launch swung round dizzily, her sharp, knife-bow 
pointed to the reef. 

“Just spin the wheel gently,” he heard Beaumont’s 
voice saying. “There is no need to use any pressure; 
she answers instantaneously.” 

“She does!” agreed Kilgour grimly, once more as¬ 
suming an upright position on his seat. 

The little engine purred softly as, with throttle half- 



THE “KITTIWAKE” 123 

open, the girl at the helm headed for the centre of the 
lagoon. 

“Turn broadside when w^e’re about half-way across,” 
Beaumont instructed. “Now, Monte, did I hear you 
demanding matches?” 

“No,” responded the younger man, “no—you did 
not. I was just remarking that the north-west mon¬ 
soon, or whatever you call the blessed thing, would 
probably break in a day or two—grey sky, heavy sea, 
sharks restless, what?” 

Beaumont gazed at the glorious, dazzling blue canopy 
above them, and tapped his forehead significantly. 

“Mad,” he said, “poor fellow. Though, j:oking 
apart, I did think we were in for the break about the 
time you people came out to Charteris. Now, it looks 
like holding indefinitely.” 

The girl at the wheel opened the throttle a little 
wider. As though drawn by an invisible cable the 
launch shot forward soundlessly. 

“A beautiful boat, this,” said Beaumont. “I brought 
her out to the Islands with me. Very useful sort 
of thing for a Government official to have about 
the place . . . chasing proas , and so on. Very 
useful.” 

“Do you ever take the open sea?” asked Kilgour. 
“Visit other islands, and so forth?” 

“I have done, once or twice. Of course, the trouble 
about the Pacific is its infernal inconstancy. One day 
the sea will be like a mill-pond: flat, oily, still. The 
next, it will rage and rave like a caged jungle-beast. 
The gain will roar on the reefs like thunder; the seas 
run high; the very bed of the ocean seem to rock to the 
fury of the cyclone! It is death to be afloat in a little 
vessel then. . . .” 

He glanced at Doris. 

“Well, kiddie, enjoying yourself, eh?” 


124 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


She laughed, her red lips breaking apart like the 
petals of an hibiscus flower. 

“Yes, thank you.” 

He stretched out a lean, tanned arm. 

“Come and sit here by me. You look lonesome.” 

Just then, Lilian, watching, thought of something. 

“By the way, where is Monsieur this morning?” she 
queried. 

“Leturc, do you mean?” 

She nodded. 

“Yes.” 

“Oh, I left him oiling-up on the verandah. In other 
words, drinking whisky.” 

She shivered elegantly. 

“I don’t like that man, Howard,” she said. 

Beaumont fingered Doris’s Mother Hubbard. 

“I am not enamoured myself.” 

“Quite harmless,” put in Kilgour, abstractedly study¬ 
ing Vanda’s profile. 

Beaumont coughed. 

“Oh, quite. . . 

Lilian glanced at him sharply, a question on her lips. 
His eyes met hers steadily an instant: the question 
remained unasked. 

“Suppose,” said Beaumont, with an evident desire to 
divert the conversation, “that we land on the reef? 
Ever been on a barrier-reef, Monte?” 

“No,” retorted Kilgour. “As a matter of fact, I 
have never even been very close to a reef in a small boat. 
But one can’t possibly land. I mean—the waves would 
throw us off as fast as we tried to clamber on to it.” 

“To-day,” said Beaumont, “the sea is just slobber¬ 
ing over the coral, that is all. One might get wet cer¬ 
tainly, but that is a detail. Doris will show you how 
it’s done. Won’t you, Doris?” 

She laughed. 


THE “KITTIWAKE” 


125 


“I shall have to take my frock off,” she said. 

Beaumont feigned confusion. 

“Dear me, dear me . . . personally, of course, I 
should not object; but—er—the ladies-” 

“If you are going to encourage immodesty in my pres¬ 
ence, w saidLilian, “I shall never come out with you again.” 

This time, his embarrassment w^as unfeigned. 

“I apologize,” he said quietly. “Perhaps my over- 
long residence in the tropics has made me view the con¬ 
ventions too lightly. I am sorry.” 

And, for once, Lilian recognized and appreciated 
his sincerity. 

After that, at Beaumont’s suggestion, Vanda headed 
the launch inshore. 

“Now,” he said, “if you don’t mind, I’ll take the 
wheel. I want to have a speed-burst to the promontory 
and back. Then we’ll dock and prepare to creep be¬ 
neath our mosquito-curtains. The heat is reaching 
danger-point already. 

With a shower of spray drenching over the bows, the 
Kittiwdke responded to her wide-flung throttle. The 
note of the engine rose to an almost shrill staccato. It 
seemed to Kilgour, crouching in the stern with Vanda 
and the other two girls, that the lagoon rose mountain- 
high on either side of their little craft. The spray 
swept their faces like a curtain of rain; the wind sang 
along the hull and the curved white engine-sheath like 
the deep-toned voice of a violin-cello. 

Beaumont, his sun-hat jammed hard over his ears, 
crouched before the wheel with set lips and half-closed 
eyes. Kilgour, gasping and spluttering, had a momen¬ 
tary vision of Doris struggling desperately to clasp 
her single, coloured garment about her legs . . . only 
Vanda, her face lifted to meet the wind, sat with closed 
eyes drinking in this life-giving blast of the elements: 



126 THE FOREST OF FEAR 

this vitalizing breath of the vast, forgotten spaces of 
the world. 

They hove-to easily enough, running gently against 
the wooden wharf, where a couple of native boys and a 
dissipated, indigent beach-comber, loungers by the 
water-side, made the launch secure with two lengths of 
hawser to a couple of wooden capstans. 

Sitting upon a large packing case, with his arm about 
the shoulders of a native girl, they found Leturc en¬ 
grossed in conversation with Ohlson, ariki vaka* of the 
Rhoda, the schooner which had so recently conveyed 
Vanda, Kilgour, and the Frenchman himself to the 
island. 

At first sight, the appearance of the Swede Captain 
was not prepossessing. He wore a pandanus hat of tre¬ 
mendous proportions, beneath which his red, blotched 
face billowed and shone like the rising moon. Between 
his loose, moist lips he rolled a long, banana-leaf cigar¬ 
ette. And his tiny, furtive eyes seemed literally to 
wallow in creases of fat. 

He sported a white shirt which, gaping open at the 
neck, displayed a chest thatched with coarse, red hair. 

On board the Rhoda , he had never been other than 
studiously polite to Vanda. True, once or twice she had 
surprised him leering at her in a way she did not alto¬ 
gether like or understand: a manner curiously reminis¬ 
cent of a professional animal-trainer leering at the ter¬ 
rified brutes over whose bodies the lash of his whip 
incessantly flicks and plays. . . . 

Yet, to-day, as she caught sight of him standing be¬ 
side Leturc and the native girl, she felt suddenly and 
unaccountably afraid. 

It seemed to her—she knew not why—as though a 
dark, vague cloud had floated across the sun: taking 
away the keen, sharp edge of her pleasure in being alive 
* Captain. 


THE “KITTIWAKE” 


127 


on such a morning. A vague, dark cloud which sent 
shadows rippling across the lagoon, and darting hither 
and thither among the dilo and pandanus trees: like 
little gnomes startled by the light of day, scurrying 
back again to haunts of gloom. 

Beaumont also glanced inquiringly at Ohlson as, 
with an elaborate flourish of his pandanus-leaf hat, the 
Swede came forward to meet him. 

“Greetings!” said Beaumont. “I thought you sailed 
last night, my friend.” 

Ohlson bowed. 

“It iss not so; I haf had much business,” he waved 
his hand. “We traders work hardt for our living!” 

Beaumont ignored the innuendo. 

“I see you have made the acquaintance of Monsieur, 
my guest.” 

Ohlson clapped Leturc on the shoulder. 

“But we are old friendts—iss it not so, Jacques?” 

Leturc laughed shortly. 

“More or less, as they say,” he responded. 

Beaumont turned to the others, who had now reached 
his side. 

“Well, children, shall we be getting along? The heat 
is unbearable!” 

He looked down at Leturc. 

“Monsieur, why do you not follow the example of our 
hygienic friend here and expose your bosom to the sun? 
They say heat is a great purifier, you know.” 

Leturc released the native girl he had been caressing. 

“Yet—it is not well to play with fire . . .” he said. 

As he spoke, Yanda became aware that Ohlson, cir¬ 
cumnavigating the packing-case, was approaching. 
She caught Kilgour by the arm. 

“Monte, that—that Swede is coming to talk to me, 
I know it! Take me away.” 



128 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


Promptly Kilgour, slipping an arm through hers, 
commenced to walk along the quay. 

“Now!” boomed a great voice: “And where are you 
two going?” 

They looked up quickly. Before them, his eyes twin¬ 
kling merrily behind his gold-rimmed glasses, stood Lep- 
mann—the German-American trader, father of Doris. 

At the sight of their fellow-passenger from Apia, 
they stopped. Out of the corner of her eye, Vanda 
could see Ohlson. He was standing some few yards in 
the rear, impatiently shuffling his feet, and evidently 
awaiting an opportunity to accost them. Lepmann, 
being a genial soul, and interpreting correctly the in¬ 
tention he had unconsciously prevented him from put¬ 
ting into action, fell into step beside them, leaving the 
discomfited skipper of the Rhoda to indulge in lurid if 
silent blasphemies. 

Some few moments later they were rejoined by Beau¬ 
mont and the other two girls. 

Lepmann laid a hand on his daughter’s dark, tousled 
head. 

“Well, little one, what have you been doing? Why, 
I declare, the salt spray has dried upon your cheeks! 
Have you been bathing?” 

Doris laughed, and shook her head. 

“We’ve been in the motor-boat,” she explained. 

Lepmann turned to Beaumont. 

“My friend, my friend, you must not let my little 
daughter weary you with her presence. She is but a 
child—do not hesitate to reprimand her, if necessary.” 

Beaumont laughed. 

“Have no fears. When she is naughty I smack her, 
as all little girls should be smacked.” 

They all laughed. 

“She is very smackable,” grinned the trader as, with 
his arm about Doris’s shoulders, he moved away. 


THE “KITTIWAKE” 


129 


“And now,” said Beaumont, “I am forthwith about 
to retire to my verandah and consume cocktails. There 
is no one in the world can mix a cocktail like my ‘boy.’ 
Believe me, Lee Wong is an artiste with the swizzle- 
stick !” 

“Cheers,” murmured Kilgour, “and wild cries of 
delight: to say nothing of the warblings of the flute, 
harp, sackbut, psaltery, dulcimer, and all other kinds of 
musical instrument!” 

“But before I leave you,” went on Beaumont, ignor¬ 
ing this inanity, “I have a suggestion to make-■” 

“No! Really?” said Kilgour. 

“I repeat, I have a suggestion to make-•” 

“We are all attention.” 

Beaumont gave a gesture of resignation. 

“Speak! Speak!” implored Kilgour. “As I have 
already had occasion to remark this morning, suspense 
is agony!” 

Beaumont glared at him. 

“I think the heat has affected your brain, Monte,” he 
observed caustically. “I suggest,” continuing calmly, 
“that to-morrow e /ening we make up a party and cross 
the hills ... we will, among other things, go to pay 
homage to the shrine of Ra. Is it agreed?” 

Three hands were immediately raised. Beaumont 
nodded. 

“Very well. Kilgour and I will call for you at the 
parsonage an hour before sundown. We shall return 
towards dawn.” 

He paused, and: 

“I have one request to make,” he added. “May I 
ask Monsieur Leturc, and Doris, to accompany us?” 

A protest trembled momentarily on Lilian’s lips ; but, 
remembering that, after all, they would be indebted to 
him for the pleasure of the beautiful night-journey, she 
was silent. 




130 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


“Thank you,” said Beaumont; and: 

“There’s one thing,” avowed Lilian confidently, 
“upon which we may all rest assured—father will not 
wax enthusiastic concerning the project. He seems to 
live in mortal terror of our visiting poor old Ra. Why, 
goodness only knows. . . 


BOOK II 


XIV 

THE WAY THERE 

You enter it by a winding forest path: a gradual de¬ 
scent from the hillside. As the crow flies, this little, se¬ 
cluded valley lies about five miles inland. But the dis¬ 
tance by the mountain track approximates ten or twelve 
miles. It is the only possible means of access to the 
interior of the island, which until the large native vil¬ 
lage inland is readied consists for the most part of for¬ 
est and bush land. Beyond this village, wherein the 
strangest personality to be found throughout the length 
and breadth of the Islands—from Ellice to Tahiti— 
made his abode, there stretched many hundreds of acres 
of cultivated land, merging at length into the under¬ 
growth fringing the beach on the opposite side of 
Charteris. 

All through Polynesia you will find the larger islands 
follow this curiously definite format: the explanation of 
course lying in the fact that they are principally of vol¬ 
canic origin. There is the characteristic ascent from 
the beach to the groves of breadfruit, flamboyant, tam¬ 
arind, bamboo, fig and banana which mark the primary 
fertile belt; then the denser jungle-like undergrowth at 
the base of the hills, which finally gives way to scrub 
and boulder, lichen-cloaked with turmeric, dracaea, or 
the riotously flourishing weed, aihere. 

Lastly, there are the hills themselves. One calls 
them hills because, perhaps, out in the Pacific one’s con- 
131 


132 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


ceptions of the three dimensions undergo a rude process 
of reshuffling, as it were. Yet these same hills are, in 
many instance, sufficiently high to be visible—-as gaunt, 
giant fingers upreared against the sky-line—far across 
the waters. Sometimes from your ship’s deck you can 
catch a transient glimpse of them in the moonlight, like 
inverted icicles on isolated sugar-loaves . . . mystical, 
ghostly minarets: as strange, yet more mellowly beauti¬ 
ful in their strangeness, as those two God-appointed 
sentinels which mount their everlasting guard over the 
myriad lights and beams reflected in the restless har¬ 
bour-waters of Rio de Janeiro. 

Between and among these green-clad peaks run the 
luxurious valleys and canons that are the soul of the 
Islands: the quintessence of this Eden stretched below 
the Line. 

There, in these forgotten defiles of the South Sea 
world, all the rarest, subtlest perfumes from Nature’s 
storehouse blend together to numb the senses like a tox- 
ine. All the colours of the rainbow glimmer richly in 
the clustering blooms that hang heavy with sleep on 
every hand . . . jasmine and oleander; pale tuberoses 
and crimson magenta; blood-red hibiscus; frangipanni, 
magnolia and hotoo-blossom; ripe oranges and limes to 
cool the parched tongue ... a tiny kingdom of colour 
and delight, exceeding in brilliance and variety of foli¬ 
age the magical gardens wherein Aladdin wooed Bad- 
roulbadour beneath the blue tent of her Persian 
sky. . . . 

And there are secret rivers, too, meandering through 
these glades like curved blue swords: now flowing silently 
seaward on their dim, united quest: now laughing and 
bubbling over rocks and stones like a child at play: now 
stealing furtively into remote, liana-hidden pools where 
slender, golden girls sport their shining limbs and bodies 
in the frank glory of youth’s abandon: now heavy and 


THE WAY THERE 


133 


swollen with the tropic rains: flooding the banks of 
vegetation: dark and muddy with churned sand and 
eddying driftwood from the forests and hillsides. . . . 

As they descended the steep mountain track into the 
valley which nestled in the very centre of Charteris, 
Beaumont called his little party to a halt. 

The moon had swung clear of the slumbrous embrace 
of the sea, and her beams were enfolding the island in a 
mantle of silver and black: a soft, luminous sheen which 
lit the earth as through one vast cathedral window. 

“When we enter the glade below,” he said, lighting 
his pipe and shifting the brown pongee-silk coat he car¬ 
ried to his left shoulder, “you will see what I consider 
to be perhaps the most beautiful sight in the South Seas 
—and certainly on Charteris.” 

“How far are we from the village?” asked Kilgour, 
fumbling in his haversack. 

“About two miles, possibly less. It lies in the heart 
of this valley.” 

They stood in silence a few moments, then, at a signal 
from the Administrator, resumed their descent to the 
glade. 

Murmurously, there fell upon their ears the whisper 
of a tiny rivulet flowing somewhere below them. An 
occasional minah bird squawked, startled, in the trees 
as they passed. Every now and again a coco-nut fell 
with a muffled thud upon the carpet of moss and crihere 
. . . otherwise the night was perfectly still. It was as 
though they walked through the amaranth-fields of the 
dead. . . . 

Unconsciously, Yanda moved closer to her lover’s 
side. 

“Monte,” she whispered, half afraid of the sound of 
her own voice, “suppose—suppose-” 

She did not complete the sentence for, almost as she 
spoke, she became aware of a singular sound. . . . 



134 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


“ Throb — throb — throb— -” 

A remote, hollow echo: rising on the currentless air 
like the sombre knocking of an unseen hand on the por¬ 
tals of a far-distant door. 

“What is that?” said Kilgour, pausing and glancing 
over his shoulder. 

“Hush!” replied Beaumont quietly. “Stand still.” 

Again the little cavalcade halted, clustering together 
beside a large guava bush. 

“Listen,” said Beaumont. “You will hear it 
again. . . .” 

Over the moon-gilded tops of the cacao trees, up 
from the shadow-filled depths of the glade, there floated 
that eerie, staccato drumming. It was like a summons 
from the Unknown! 

“Throb—throb — throb — throb ——” 

“Sacre bleu!” cried Leturc. “What can it be?” 

Lilian, pale and statuesque in the fey half-light, 
smiled slightly. Doris crept against Beaumont; her 
soft, warm fingers searching for his hand. 

“ Throb — throb — throb — throb ——” 

“Come,” said Beaumont. “It is the voice of Ra!” 

Shivering, they fell into step beside him. ... 









XV 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 

When Beaumont eulogistically referred to the tree- 
shrouded valley into which the elevated hill-track they 
were negotiating eventually descended as being ‘perhaps 
the most beautiful sight in the South Seas, 5 his state¬ 
ment was certainly not wholly exaggeration. 

The Hanging Gardens of ancient Babylon could not 
have presented a more entrancing spectacle than did 
this forest glade by moonlight. As they entered it, a 
cry of wonder and delight broke from the three girls. In 
the effulgent, almost sacrificial radiance which seemed 
to play like elfin starshine among the trees and bushes, 
the profusion of flowers on every hand assumed the 
magical semblance of a hundred fallen rainbows—rain¬ 
bows which, having become unhooked or detached from 
the wall of the sky, had toppled ignominiously to earth, 
to become caught in the tangled leaves and branches of 
this miniature tropic jungle. 

“Why, 55 cried Vanda Hardie, “I don 5 t think I have 
ever seen anything so lovely ! 55 

Beaumont smiled. 

“I thought you would be pleased. It is very magnifi¬ 
cent. But that reminds me, there is an old Jap proverb 
which says: ‘Do not use the word magnificent until you 
have seen Nikko. 5 Well, I doubt if even the glades and 
vegetation of Nikko can rival this in beauty. Of course, 
you have been here before, Lilian ?55 he said. 

The elder girl nodded. 

“Yes, once or twice. We have had Mission-picnics 
here, you know. 55 


135 


136 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


“I remember,” replied Beaumont, vainly endeavour¬ 
ing to reconcile the witching, sensuous beauty of the 
place with his own rather grim conception of the Wor¬ 
ship of God as performed in Pastor Hardie’s tin 
Mission. 

“Personally,” said Kilgour, “I should enjoy the whole 
business a great deal more if that infernal racket in 
the village yonder would cease! It completely bemuses 
me; my thoughts are chaotic!” 

“Is that an unusual state of affairs?” bantered 
Beaumont. 

Through the stealing shadows of the undergrowth, 
setting the scent-laden air a-shiver at its intangible ap¬ 
proach, in the form of billowing wave-vibrations of 
sound, came the roll of those unseen drums. 

“ Throb — throb—throb -” 

A brief, palpitating silence, and then again: 

“ Throb — throb—throb -•” until the whole world 

seemed to rock and sway keeping time to the macabre 
measure of that bizarre, unholy tune. 

They had proceeded perhaps a mile through the per¬ 
fumed glade before they came in sight of the native 
village, standing, silhouetted black and grey in the 
moonlight, in the centre of a small clearing. And now 
the bang and shudder of the skin drums was no longer a 
vague, indeterminate manifestation echoing, as it were, 
through the kingdoms of the dead. It was a deafening, 
pulsing clamour: a tangible, startling and unavoidable 
menace! 

But Beaumont was not lightly going to permit the 
intensely dramatic effect of this uncanny scene to be 
lost upon his companions. Once more halting the little 
party of embryo explorers in the purple shadows of 
the trees, he addressed them in much the same manner 
as a showman exhibiting Tableaux Vwants to a gaping 
audience of country yokels. 




THE FOREST OF FEAR 


137 


“Here, ladies and gentlemen,” he cried, raising his 
voice in a courageous effort to make himself heard 
above the accelerando thunder of the drums, “you be¬ 
hold—in actual practice—the fetish-worship of Ra!” 

The village was built in the form of a hollow square; 
the cane and bamboo houses being ranged along the 
four sides at regular intervals. In the centre of this 
square, the watchers among the trees could discern a 
large gathering of natives—presumably the inhabitants 
of the village itself. This throng, their faces unitedly 
bent towards the ground as if in prayer, might—so mo¬ 
tionless, so apparently devoid of life were they—have 
been wondrously carved in ebony by the master-hand of 
a sculptor. And then, as they gazed curiously, half- 
awed, at the scene, the roll of the drums ceased * „ . 
and a singular thing happened. 

There ensued a brief, breathless pause. A pause 
fraught with untold, unvisionable possibilities. Instinc¬ 
tively it reminded Lilian of that curious transient lull 
which occurs during the awful, stupendous progress of 
a cyclone: that appalling phenomenon of the Island 
world. A suspense, a checking of enormous activity 
when—as the centre of the storm passes overhead—the 
wind ceases, the roar of the elements grows muted and 
dies, and the blackness of the Universe glimmers into 
spectral, ghostly grey. 

So it was here. After the song of the drums—peace. 
But a peace engendering no sense of security, no physi¬ 
cal access of ease and tranquillity. Only a nightmare 
quality of tension; a sensation as of standing on the 
brink of an abyss or of being dogged by a calamitous, 
pursuing disaster: an inevitable fate: an enigmatic yet 
calculated destiny. . . . This silence of the drums, 
then, was prelude to the crash of an imminent Doom. 

Not so. It was but the prelude to a strange and 
plaintive semblance of what is, perhaps, the strangest 


138 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


and most unhuman sound on earth—the call of the 
Muezzin from a Mosque-tower heard for the first time 
by the lonely traveller as the sun sets in a welter of 
blood over the star-dusted rim of the Sahara—the 
limitless garden of Allah. 

To Kilgour, whose restless feet had trodden the sand- 
heavy streets of Biskra more than once, there was some¬ 
thing profoundly startling in this echo from a remote 
and alien world. He gazed around him as though he 
half-expected to see a turbaned Shaykh step from the 
shadow of the nearest lantana-bush, or the grinning 
black face of a Sudanese peer from behind an adjacent 
dilo trunk. 

“What, in the name of all things wonderful, is that ?” 
he said to Beaumont. 

The other smiled. 

“Rather weird, isn’t it? Gave me quite a turn the 
first time I heard it. It is the worship-signal. They are 
all making obeisance now, see.” 

Kilgour frowned. 

“Humph, reminds one of Cairo: the rabble of the 
Muki. Most unnerving—out here in the South Seas— 
coming like that . . . without warning. And to whom 
are they ‘making obeisance’?” 

“To Ra.” 

* “I should like to meet Ra,” retorted Kilgour grimly. 
“Like the immortal Mrs. ’Arris, I don’t believe there’s 
no sich person! And as for his name, why—it strikes 
me as being positively foolish!”' 

The Administrator laughed. 

“Not, perhaps, so foolish as it appears to be. ‘Raa’ 
—with the second ‘a’ retained—is the name of one of 
the principal deities of the Polynesians, from whom the 
Third Order of divinities, the gods of medicine and of 
war, are thought to be descended. The gentleman 
whom we are shortly about to visit dispenses with the 




THE FOREST OF FEAR 


139 


additional ‘a,’ and, were he able to do so, would write 
his name exactly the same as would a certain god of 
the early Egyptians. But the origin of our ‘Ra’ is 
perfectly obvious. A similar coincidence is found in 
the fact that on an island south of the Marquesas there 
is an idol known to the natives as ‘Om’—which, curi¬ 
ously enough, happens to be the first syllable of a sacred 
Buddhist formula. But as for Ra himself, I can assure 
you of his existence. He is flesh and blood all right. 
But God alone knows what other ingredients were 
poured into the mixture beside. . . 

“God,” observed Kilgour, “is a secretive sort of 
Being: His alchemy the eternal problem of mankind.” 

But Beaumont’s attention had wandered. His eyes 
were again contemplating the bowed assembly in the 
village square. 

“That’s over. Now for the dancing.” 

“Are we going to join in?” queried Kilgour appre¬ 
hensively. 

“Oh, no. Specially selected girls contribute to this 
portion of the ceremony. See, here they come.” 

The crowd had now dispersed, ranging itself upon 
reed squatting-mats along the fronts of the houses, and 
forming queues in the spaces between each building. 
Evidently the centre of the square was to be left clear 
and unobstructed for this, the next item of the pro¬ 
gramme. 

“Enter procession of Ouled Nayils , opposite 
Prompt,” chanted Kilgour mournfully. “Clad in yash¬ 
maks and sandals,” he added, without conviction. 

“What are Ouled Nayils?” asked Vanda. 

“Egyptian dancers,” he replied. “They are attired 
in diaphanous draperies and make a point of inveigling 
young and innocent tourists into dark and doubtful 
places. Ugh!” 

“Why?” 


140 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


“Why? Oh, I don’t know. Some say that It is their 
method of demonstrating affection . . . they have a 
further distressing habit of rambling through your 
pockets whilst you are asleep in the deep, so to 
speak.” 

“But I don’t understand. Do you mean to say you 
sleep in those ‘dark and doubtful’ places, as you call 
them ?” 

“It is frequently a question of the force of circum¬ 
stances. An East of Suez anaesthetic, bhang for in¬ 
stance, properly administered, is well-nigh irresistible!” 

“Oh, I see. They drug you?” 

Kilgour coughed deprecatingly. 

“Not they —their confederates. Some tarboosh'd 
devil who has been dogging your footsteps for days: 
who has bribed your guide to lead you into the Bazaars, 
ostensibly on a cheerful little sight-seeing expedition. 

. . . But don’t you trouble yourself about such things. 
The world is a very wide and wicked place—agreed; 
for the moment, however, we have to concentrate our 
attention upon this mimic Nautch display!” 

While he had been speaking, four native girls had 
slipped lithely into the arena from one of the huts on 
the opposite side of the square. In the moonlight they 
were clearly distinguishable: their limbs and bodies 
swaying rhythmically in readiness for the accompani¬ 
ment of the hidden drums. 

“I suppose,” murmured Kilgour, “that the particular 
house from which these maidens have emerged is the 
‘dressing-room’ ?” 

“The ww-dressing room,” amended Beaumont. 

“The worst feature about these native dances,” put 
in Lilian, overhearing, “is their suggestiveness. Don’t 
you agree with me, monsieur?”—turning to Leturc. 

He gestured. 

“Ah, but they are very beautiful, mad’moiselle.” 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 141 

“Certainly. I do not deny their beautv. I remarked 
that they were suggestive.” 

“Suggestive of what, mad’moiselle?” 

Beneath the level, almost insolent scrutiny of his 
strange green eyes, the girl coloured painfully. But 
Beaumont, watching her closely, noticed—with a slight 
twitching of the lips—that she held her ground bravely. 

“Of immodesty—immorality,” she said quietly. 

Leturc shrugged his drooping shoulders. 

“Perhaps—a littal. But what of it? Youth is al¬ 
ways immoral: it is its peculiar privilege, mad’moiselle.” 

“Not— always she replied, as she stepped forward 
a foot or so, the better to see the dance which to the 
gentle tattoo of the drums had now commenced. 

It was a grotesque, sensuous affair, this dance of the 
brown-skinned Polynesian maidens. But as it pro¬ 
ceeded, it seemed to the little group of unseen spec¬ 
tators to assume an indefinable quality of beauty. The 
almost hysterical abandon and lack of syncopation 
which had marked the opening steps gave place to that 
rare, supple grace of movement which characterizes the 
Upaupahura , the celebrated ‘Singing Dance of Love’: 
the most perfect exponents of which are the girls of 
Moorea and the Marquesas Islands—as anyone ac¬ 
quainted with the South Seas will tell you. 

They were clad, these moonlight dancers, in a soli¬ 
tary garment of soft, semi-transparent white cloth, 
reaching half-way to the knees, where it swirled—many- 
folded—about their dark, incessantly-moving limbs. It 
was bound tightly about the body, covering the left 
breast and leaving the shoulders bare. In the hair of 
each dancer there was twined a wreath or lei of tiny 
white blossoms; while round the waist was draped a 
girdle of white hyacinths . . . white love-flowers. 

To the measured beat of the drums there was now 
added the wistful, plaintive whimper-whimper of 


142 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


ukuleles, caressed by the tender fingers of invisible mu¬ 
sicians. And all the time the dancers curved and circled 
and swayed in ecstasy: with luring brown arms out¬ 
stretched and dark eyes flashing silent messages through 
the moon-drenched dusk to hearts made hot with music 
and passion and love. . . . 

Leturc stood motionless between Doris and Lilian; on 
his white, haggard face the dull, half-witted smile of 
lust. . . . 

“Mon Dieu /” he said softly. “But it is— magm- 
fique!” —the English he always strove to employ failing 
him in the exuberance of the moment. 

Beaumont lit a cigarette, passing his case to Kilgour. 

“Monsieur admires our island dancers, then?’* 

Leturc half dazedly turned his head. 

“Admire them? Monsieur, never have I beheld such 

exquisite dancing save in an op-: save in a dream. 

And dreams, monsieur, fade and perish with the dawn. 

. . . One cannot kiss the woman of a dream!” 

Beaumont nodded. Not by the slightest outward 
sign did he betray the fact that he had perceived the 
Frenchman’s slip. Not by word or look did he convey 
to Leturc the knowledge that he had found, all un¬ 
sought, a weak spot in that diligently and cunningly 
wrought armour which made the life of this man a per¬ 
petual lie. Only to himself he said: ‘Opium and women 
. . . two dangerous vices, my friend: both from my 
point of view and yours!’ 

He became aware that the object of his thoughts was 
again speaking. 

“Pardon, monsieur. I am afraid my attention wan¬ 
dered somewhat in the contemplation of yonder be¬ 
witching maidens,” he said courteously. 

Leturc silenced him with a gesture. 

“But do not apologize. Who is there present would 









THE FOREST OF FEAR 143 

blame you? Such peerless forms as those were but made 
to delight the soul of man. C’est vrai /” 

“The cat is coming out of the bag with a vengeance,” 
thought Beaumont. “Wait yet a little while longer. 
Monsieur Leturc—there are further pitfalls prepared 
for you.” 

The Frenchman’s voice ran on: 

“A wanderer upon the face of the earth,” he said, 
smiling succinctly at Vanda: “I have talked with the 
shadowy dancers of the Nile: those ivory-cheeked 
maidens whose lips are crimson as the wet blood stream¬ 
ing from a Temrouk blade. I have laughed beside the 
blue waters of the Bosphorus with damask-fingered 
Turkish girls, all gay in silks and satins and brown 
sandal shoes. I have wooed the wild, deep-bosomed 
daughters of far Kurdistan beneath the star-encrusted 
canopy of the Eastern sky. I have played hide-and- 
seek among the almond-groves of Samarcand, and 
plucked the soft, red-lilies of Bokhara to twine within 
my lady’s hair. I have sung of love on the city ram¬ 
parts of Cabul and Kandahar. . . . 

“I have dreamed beside the lotus-lakes of fair Kash¬ 
mir: fanned by the gentle henna-tipped hands of dove- 
eyed Indian maids. I have strayed through the Sun- 
Courts of the Harems of the Orient: my apparel dusted 
with sweet-smelling powders blown from soft, human 
bodies—white and brown: my palms stained pink and 
indigo with rouge and kohl. . . . 

“And yet, and yet—never have I witnessed such 
charm, such proportion of limb, such symmetry of form 
or such perfection of movement as I behold here to¬ 
night! Certainement —they have the figures of god¬ 
desses !” 

Kilgour glanced at Beaumont. 

“That wasn’t bad,” he said in an undertone, “con¬ 
sidering it was extempore .” 


144 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


Beaumont’s lips curved sardonically. 

“Infernal braggadocio!” he returned unsympatheti¬ 
cally. “He makes me feel positively sick. ... At the 
same time, all this sort of thing is very enlightening. I 
am only sorry the girls are compelled to suffer the out¬ 
pourings of his erotic sensualism. . . .” 

By this time the dancing had ceased and a loud babble 
of conversation, punctuated by still louder gusts of 
laughter and occasional vocalism, arose from the vil¬ 
lage; intimating, Beaumont explained, that a feast of 
some kind was in preparation. 

“Now that the more picturesque section of the pro¬ 
gramme is concluded, we will seek audience with Ra him¬ 
self,” he said. 

“It all sounds frightfully impressive,” observed Kil- 
gour. “But—might one ask where he has been hiding 
during this pantomime? Is there a throne somewhere, 
or a state-room?” 

Beaumont shook his head. 

“There is a cavern, dimly lit—that is all. Ra does 
hot personally witness these special ceremonies arranged 
on his behalf. He ponders upon the eternal mysteries 
of life: searching the lights and shadows of his crystal 
Pool. . . ” 

“A water-diviner, what?” 

“Much more than that.” 

“A conjurer; a soothsayer; a devil-devil man; or a 
witch-doctor, then?” 

“No,” returned Beaumont. “A strange, simple soul; 
endued with more than ordinary faculties. A vast men¬ 
tality housed in a pitiful, distorted body—nothing 
more.” 

“You intrigue me.” 

“Come and see for yourself, then. Follow me, 
Lilian and Doris. Monte, I leave Miss Vanda to you. 
Are you ready, monsieur?” 







THE FOREST OF FEAR 


145 


The arrival of Beaumont and his companions in the 
village caused some slight stir among the groups of men 
and women gathered about the square. It was evident 
that the Administrator’s presence was not unwelcome. 
Sturdy young Polynesians, wearing only the single white 
or coloured pareu dictated by decency, came forward 
beaming all over their flat, pleasant faces, and wrung 
his hand. Old, marvellously wrinkled and decrepit men 
shambled about him, contesting against each other to 
make themselves heard above the general hubbub of 
sound. Dusky, dark-eyed girls presented him with 
flowers, almost embarrassing him with the ardour of 
their attentions. Kilgour recollected that Lepmann had 
confided to him on board the Rhoda the fact that there 
was not a more popular Governor in Polynesia than 
Beaumont; now he perceived the truth of this statement. 

It seemed difficult to imagine that only a few decades 
ago these pleasant, hospitable people had been blood¬ 
thirsty cannibals: lusting about their island world like 
the beasts of the jungle; their movements actuated by 
dark and tortuous brains wherein only occasional dim 
flashes of intelligence other than animal illumined the 
prevailing gloom! 

For this revolution, one had the energy of civilized 
and progressive Governments and the unflagging altru¬ 
ism of the missionaries to thank. 

The conversion of Oceania from a state of barbarous 
savagery to at least passable conditions of law and 
order was not accomplished in a day. Enlightenment 
spread slowly: a small, flickering flame—at first sight 
apparently only requiring a puff of wind, an eddy of 
revolt or protestation, to extinguish it utterly. But 
with the swift passage of years that tiny, almost futile 
glow became fanned into red tongues of fire, gradually 
lapping up the old pagan doubts and fears, the half- 
resentful questionings which barred their progress; 


146 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


until, to-day, though there are still those who would 
have your head on a charger and hang your skull to 
their waistband, one is able to journey safely about 
this forgotten Paradise, meeting on an equal footing the 
descendants of that lost, mysterious people who once 
roamed the sea-spaces of the Pacific in the days when 
the peaked islands and atolls of the South Seas were 
but the highlands and mountain tops of a vast and 
almost palaeocosmic continent which, according to the 
almost universally accepted Darwinian theory, then oc¬ 
cupied this quarter of the globe. 

Therefore, though the ethics of this extraordinary 
fetish worship of the being known as ‘Ra’ were unknown 
to him, Monte Kilgour realized that neither the cere¬ 
mony they had just witnessed, nor the feast which was 
in preparation, had any connection with the fabled can¬ 
nibal monstrosities of a generation ago. This was no 
savage rite of bloody sacrifice: no manifestation of 
wanton barbarism. There was an atmosphere of sin¬ 
cerity, an impression of intellectual happiness pervad¬ 
ing everything, which in itself led one to believe that the 
religion of Ra—if religion, indeed, it could be termed— 
was a potent and joyous thing—be it rank heathenism 
or otherwise. Beaumont addressed one of the oldest and 
most repulsive looking men in the circle around him. 

“Is the All-Wise within?” 

The old man nodded. 

“Tell him the Governor is here and would speak with 
him.” 

Though this speech was entirely lost upon Kilgour, he 
realized that Beaumont had delivered some form of 
message to the native, for the old man elbowed his way 
through the ring and disappeared from view. 

“That old boy is a Chief,” whispered Beaumont, in 
an aside. “Which, being interpreted, means that he 
owns several groves of coconut-trees—I forget how 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 147 

many—and assists me to bring up these children of 
ours in the way they should go.” 

He glanced over his shoulder. 

“Where is Doris?” he asked. 

“She was here a moment ago,” responded Lilian, 
and added: “Probably she’s flirting with some native or 
other.” 

Beaumont smiled. 

“Probably,” he agreed. 

At that moment the aged Chief returned. 

“The All-Wise awaits the coming of the white gov¬ 
ernor,” he said. “One of my maidens shall conduct 
you and your companions to the cavern in the hillside.” 

“Thank you,” returned Beaumont. “When next you 
have occasion to visit the town, call and drink kava with 
me at my house.” 

The Chief smiled lugubriously. Then, placing a hand 
to his lips, he sent a loud, shrill call ringing down the 
avenues of the night and waking the echoes of the 
valley until one stood appalled by that immense, unex¬ 
pected volume of sound. 

In response to this Brobdingnagian summons, three 
or four women emerged from the large hut which had 
previously served as a dressing-room for the white- 
robed dancing girls, and approached the Chief. 

In colour they were one, and each wore a Mother 
Hubbard of vivid hue. But physically they differed sur¬ 
prisingly—ranging from an overpowering corpulence 
to a thinness and emaciation so extreme that Kilgour’s 
hitherto unshaken belief in the perfect proportions of 
Polynesian women toppled to pieces with his first 
glimpse of them. 

At a signal from the Chief, they ranged themselves 
single file before Beaumont, concertedly smiling at him 
in what they considered to be their most alluring and 
captivating manner. 


148 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


The Administrator, to whom all this palaver was but 
part and parcel of existence, addressed Leturc: 

“Which of these ladies shall we elect to be our guide, 
monsieur?” he queried. 

Leturc regarded them with the coldly critical eyes of 
a connoisseur; whilst Kilgour, vaguely conscious of a 
sense of stupefaction, continued to stare at the almost 
elephantine leader of this singular quartet. 

In truth, her appearance was sufficiently abnormal to 
excite comment from the most hardened and initiated 
student of physiology. She was an anatomical outrage: 
an enormous, senseless jest perpetrated by an imbecile 
Nature! Within her close-fitting Mother Hubbard, 
her preposterous body bulged and billowed like a half- 
deflated balloon. Never in the course of his varied life 
had Monte Kilgour beheld such an adipose woman. Her 
bosom gave him the unnerving impression that at any 
moment if would burst the confines of the Mother Hub¬ 
bard entirely, while her arms and limbs were positively 
arboreal in their magnitude. Elephantiasis was, when 
compared to her, as a gumboil to a goitre. 

In desperation, he endeavoured to concentrate his 
attention upon the other three women. He looked at 
the slenderest of them: and the absurdity of the com¬ 
parison was so patent that he suffered a momentary 
dread that he would bray forth into hysterical laughter. 
But the qualm of doubt passed and he found himself 
marvelling upon the idiosyncrasies of a Creator who 
could fashion such diverse human forms as these. . . , 

This fourth woman was almost unbelievably lath-like. 
Whereas the flesh of her companion hung upon her body 
in great, coarse rolls of fat, the skin of the former was 
stretched tight as a drum upon the stiff, angular frame¬ 
work of bones beneath. She was tall and girthless as a 
pine tree. Her bare limbs resembled sticks of match- 
wood : foul disease might have ravaged her to this. Yet 



THE FOREST OF FEAR 


149 


Kilgour knew, as he gazed at her in speechless wonder¬ 
ment, that she was physically quite healthy and that 
rampant disease had taken no part whatever in this 
singular arrestation of the natural functions. Both 
these women, then, were nothing more or less than 
freaks, human grotesques. In a show or exhibition 
where abnormality is publicly exploited for the purpose 
of material gain, they probably would have been worth 
a small fortune to their management. Here, in a set¬ 
ting of almost unbelievable beauty, with stiff, practised 
smiles distorting their brown faces, their appearance 
was infinitely pathetic—a thing to cause one to steal 
very softly away through the night and hide till they 
should have vanished from human sight forever. . . . 

The other two women were altogether more normal; 
representing, as it were, the intermediate steps between 
two extremes. One of them, while heavily proportioned 
and massively built, was fairly typical of the average 
Polynesian woman who is also the mother of a large and 
increasing family; while the other was a slender, grace¬ 
ful maiden of pleasing appearance and attractive 
demeanour. 

With a gesture of relief, Kilgour beckoned her 
forward. 

“Shall we allow this young lady to be our guide—if 
she will consent ?” he said to Leturc. 

The Frenchman laughed ironically. 

“There is no question of her ‘consenting* involved,” 
he said. “I fancy these maidens are kept here for the 
express purpose of entertaining the guests of the All- 
Wise, and our friend the Chief. . . . Am I not right, 
monsieur?”—glancing at Beaumont. 

The Administrator nodded assent. Then, turning to 
the native girl who, standing some few feet away, had 
been patiently awaiting his instructions; 


150 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 

“Grace of God,” he smiled, “we are at your dis¬ 
posal. Lead on.” 

“One moment,” interposed Lilian. “Surely you have 
not forgotten Doris ?” 

Beaumont shrugged his shoulders. 

“No doubt she dallies with some friend or other— 
you know what girls are. In any case it does not mat¬ 
ter greatly. She will rejoin us at MacWhirter’s bunga¬ 
low a little later. I propose to rest there a while before 
we commence our return journey.” 

A faint smile twitched the corners of Lilian’s thin 
lips. 

“You surprise me, Howard,” she murmured. 

“In what way?” asked Beaumont. 

“By implying that the presence or otherwise of Doris 
is immaterial to you-” 

Almost before she had completed the sentence, she 
was sorry she had spoken. As the last word fell from 
her lips, she felt her arm seized as though in the jaws 
of a vice. 

“You little fool,” said Beaumont in her ear. “You 
abject little fool-” 

He flung her from him with brutal force, so that she 
staggered upon the uneven ground and would have fallen 
had not Leturc, who was near-by, stretched out an arm 
and caught her. Half laughing, half sobbing, she 
turned her face upward, her thanks smiling through her 
swimming eyes. . . . 

“Mad’moiselle caught her foot, no?” the Frenchman 
said softly. . . . “Pawvre petite. . . .” 

She drooped against him. In the gloom of the artu 
trees, the fracas following her remark to Beaumont had 
passed unnoticed. 

“Yes, I—stumbled,” she admitted. 

She glanced round, half-expecting to see the gaunt 
form of the Administrator close at hand. From the 







THE FOREST OF FEAR 


151 


shadows ahead came a shout of laughter. Evidently the 
others, guided by the sophisticated directions issuing 
perpetually from the mouth of Grace of God, were well 
in front of them. 

Leturc’s arm tightened about her. 

“In the groves of Paradise, mad’moiselle,” he mur¬ 
mured, “all things are forgiven those who search for the 
happiness they have missed on earth-” 

“What—do—you—mean?” she faltered, suddenly 
sensing his great nearness to her in the darkness: now 
every moment growing more and more profound. 

He stood very still, one arm around her body; the 
other raised so that his fingers might just touch her 
hair. With an almost imperceptible movement, she laid 
her head against his shoulder. 

“Monsieur,” she whispered, her voice so low that he 
had to stoop to catch the words, “tell me—why have 
you come to Charteris ?” 

His questing fingers twined themselves about a tiny, 
errant curl which strayed across her ear, and suddenly 
there leapt out upon her from the streaming shadows of 
the clustering trees, Fear—gaunt, stark, grim, and in¬ 
credibly menacing. Fear of the silent, listening forest 
all around her: fear of the age-old mysteries and secrets 
locked away in the dim fastnesses of the interior of the 
island: fear of the man standing beside her, whose hot 
breath even now was touching her blanching cheeks, and 
—most terrible of all—fear of the answer to her ques¬ 
tion: the answer for which she waited, scarcely breath¬ 
ing, whilst the hurrying seconds slipped to minutes, and 
the minutes to Eternity. 

Fear. . 


# • 



XVI 


LILIAN MOVES 

Yet, after it had become painfully apparent to Lilian 
that, unless something happened very quickly indeed, 
she would undoubtedly swoon, ‘Eternity’ came to an 
abrupt and timely conclusion. 

Leturc drew breath, sharply and sibilantly; and: 

“I came searching for someone, mad’moiselle,” he 
responded. “Someone I had thought never to see 
again-” 

Lilian, the tension of unendurable silence snapped, 
pulled herself rapidly together. 

“A man?” 

“A woman, mad’moiselle.” 

And now, drawing strength from her resolve, she drew 
still closer against him, her face lifted to his. 

“Monsieur,” her voice was very, very low—only 
breathing the words: “My lips burn; my body is on fire 

—hold me-” her voice broke on a sob. Almost 

violently he raised her arms about his neck; his lips 
hungrily seeking hers. . . . 

“One moment, monsieur,” the slow voice ran on. 
“Will you not also tell me for whom it was that you 
searched? Tell me, monsieur, I am full of a woman’s 
curiosity. . . . Tell me, and then-” 

“Yes?” he said hoarsely, “and then?” 

“Tell me-” she repeated; one hand stroking his 

sweat-matted hair. 

“Your sister, of course. Who else?” he said. 
“Now-” 


152 







LILIAN MOVES 153 

“Monsieur, one second longer. You were— m love 
—with my sister?” 

“I was ” he said, half-angrily. 

“You followed her to the Islands, no?” 

“Yes!” he cried, smothering her mouth with his 
kisses. Unresisting, she turned her face to his. Her 
body was cold as ice. . . . 

“Lilian,” he gasped. “Ma petite — ma petite -” 

“Monsieur,” quietly she drew back from the awful 
passion of his caresses. “Monsieur—one little question 
further-” 

Abruptly he released her: holding her at arm’s length: 
sudden suspicion kindling in his eyes. 

“Yes?” 

“Do not be angry, Monsieur. Love is never angry, 
surely? All women ask questions, monsieur—even the 
maidens of la belle France . Tell me, do you think my 
father would have consented to your marriage? The 
little golden-haired one—my sister—is so young: so 
immature. Kiss me again—and tell me.” 

She was employing every artifice, every allurement of 
her sex now. To him—blinded—it seemed that passion 
trembled in every limb of her. No longer master of him¬ 
self, he buried his face against the soft coverings of her 
bosom—drunk with that self-same lust which in time 
past had brought many a mighty Empire crashing to 
its doom! 

“The breasts of Sheba were not softer than thine,” 
he babbled. “The apples of Hesperider not half so 
sweet——” 

Above his coarse and tangled hair, her contorted lips 
still framed their question. 

“Would my father have consented?” she mouthed. 
“Tell me—my love-” 

“Yes,” his voice, muffled, made answer. “Yes, he 
would have consented!” 






154 * 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


“Why?” she cried, louder than she knew. 

The first fierce gust of his senseless passion had 
abated. He dropped to his knees, his arms clasped 
about her waist, and flung back his head to meet her 
invisible eyes. , 

“There was murder done here—long ago,” he stam¬ 
mered, struggling desperately to catch and hold that 
elusive sanity which with every successive outburst of 
lust it became more and more difficult to recall. “That 
is why! Mon Dieu —that is why!” 

Lilian reeled and would have fallen, but for those 
trembling, enfolding arms. 

“O God!” she choked, her agonized face upturned to 
the dim light of the waning moon filtering between the 
latticework of the eclipsing trees. “O God . . . give 
me strength . . . give me strength. . . .” 

Leturc, his face once more pressed fatuously against 
her, did not hear. His breath came in harsh, sibilant 
gasps. She could hear it above the drum-like beating of 
their hearts. 

“You mean,” she said, “you mean—Monsieur Kil- 
gour’s father? Is it not so?” 

She was vaguely conscious of a movement of assent. 

“ Who murdered him?” she sobbed. “Who— 

who-?” 

“I know . . .” his voice drifted up to her. “Of 
all men living, I alone know.” 

“Then tell me!” she cried, pummelling him with one 
small, closed fist. “You must tell me!” she repeated. 
“I insist—it is right that I should know! Who mur¬ 
dered Elmer Kilgour?” 

He laughed harshly. Like all base men caught in the 
backwash of the waves of a mere animal emotion, he felt 
towards the object of that emotion now only scorn and 
contempt. And, as a result of this, the mists which 
had temporarily dimmed the astuteness of his brain 



LILIAN MOVES 


155 


commenced to disperse—leaving him vaguely uneasy, 
vaguely perturbed, vaguely speculative. The thought of 
what he might have said, of what his tongue, its control- 
post for the time being deserted, might have spoken into 
the wide ears of the world (as represented by Lilian) 
whilst under the influence of his passion was staggering! 

“ Mon Dieu . . .” he muttered, rising to his feet and 
releasing her completely. 

“Who murdered Captain Kilgour?” she repeated 
almost voicelessly. 

At that he sprang toward her like a goaded beast. 

“It does not suit my purpose to tell you 1” he snarled; 
then: “Come here, mademoiselle, that I may ravish you 
once again with my lips . . . your body, at least, is 
beautiful-” 

The words trailed away into silence: a tense, breath¬ 
less silence, broken only by the far-away sound of 
revellers making merry in the village lying behind them. 

Then Lilian spoke. Her voice was sharp and cruel as 
a flail. Open-mouthed, the Frenchman stared through 
the moon-shot dusk occupying the space between them. 

“I do not think Monsieur would be such a fool as to 
wander about the world unarmed—therefore I caution 
him not to stir his hands to draw his weapon! My 
revolver is efficient: my aim, at close quarters, deadly.” 

A frightful oath broke from the Frenchman’s lips. 
The girl before him laughed. 

“You poor deluded creature,” she said, “to be taken 
in by me—by me ! Why, but for the filth that cloaks 
you round like the decay about an over-ripe banana, I 
should be tempted to pity you! Fool! You have 
blundered badly this time. My God, you have blundered 
badly. Many women—countless women, I doubt not— 
have fallen to you, monsieur. Now— you have fallen to 
a woman! Do you hear me? A woman! Hand me 
your revolver—quick!” 



156 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


“Damn you—no!” growled the man. 

“Monsieur speaks like a kicked cur . . . surely that 
is not in accordance with his usual custom? Your 
revolver, monsieur, or-” 

With a dull thud it fell at her feet, gleaming evilly. 

<tf Thank you. Monsieur Leturc, we will declare an 
armistice—what say you? But first of all let me cau¬ 
tion you with reference to one or two small matters. 
... I perceive that you have in your possession some 
fact—true or fictitious—by the aid of which you pro¬ 
pose to gain the hand of my sister in marriage. Mon¬ 
sieur smiles. He will, perhaps, smile less when I remind 
him that I have in my possession some facts which, 
reported to certain responsible people, would place him 
within the walls of-” 

“—The Penitentiary,” sneered Leturc. “Made¬ 
moiselle-” 

“No,” continued Lilian, “Monsieur guesses wrongly. 
I was about to say the four walls of a Criminal Lunatic 
Asylum l Monsieur forgets that I am a doctor. I would 
inform monsieur that in my opinion he is morally insane. 
In fact, the revolting scene I have but a few moments 
ago experienced entirely confirms a suspicion I have 
entertained from the first night of our meeting.” 

Leturc cowered on the grass, his long claw-like fingers 
twining themselves together in the exigencies of his 
battle for self-control. 

“Also,” continued Lilian calmly, “he is a drug-taker 
—a drug fiend. At the best, I perceive that his life can 
be of but short duration. If, therefore, monsieur will 
accept the advice of one so humble as myself, he will 
abandon his absurd project and leave Charteris with all 
possible dispatch. If he wishes, I will also provide him 
with the address of a certain distinguished professor of 
medicine in New York City who might— might —be able 









LILIAN MOVES 157 

to assist him to prolong his life a little. . . . Does Mon¬ 
sieur accept my offer?* 

“Ma fois, no !” retorted Leturc, advancing a little 
towards her. 

“Very well, monsieur must be prepared to face the 
consequences of his decision—he is a brave man.** 

She laughed slightly; the strain of the prolonged con¬ 
versation was beginning to tell upon her already ex¬ 
hausted nervous system. 

“With regard to what has transpired this evening, 
loyalty to my father and my sister, together with a not 
unnatural desire to do my duty, compels me to bring 
two facts which I have gleaned—in agony of mind and 
body, remember—to the notice of the Governor of our 
little kingdom—Monsieur Beaumont. These facts are, 
respectively: your admission that you are acquainted 
with the identity of the murderer of Elmer Kilgour, and 
your threat to use this knowledge to force my father’s 
consent to your marriage with my sister. Why,” she 
laughed scornfully, “one would almost think that you 
mean to imply that my father himself was the 
murderer!” 

“Mon Dieu !” cried Leturc in desperation, “J do not 
want to marry your sister at all!" 

“Then there will be three facts to report to Monsieur 
Beaumont, instead of two,” smiled Lilian. “One does 
not pursue unprotected young females across the Pacific 
from a mere desire to gaze upon their beauty. Monsieur 
Leturc, your intentions are apparently even grosser 
than I thought!” 

Helpless, his slightest movement covered with the 
diminutive, gleaming nozzle of her revolver, Leturc burst 
into a perfect tornado of blasphemy and abuse. Lilian 
waited patiently until, breathless, he ceased and leant 
against the trunk of a tree. Then: 

“Upon one matter only will I keep silence,” she said. 


158 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


“I told you, a few minutes ago, certain truths which 
would not sound pleasant to your ears. Were I to obey 
the dictates of my conscience at this moment, I should 
blazon these, too, abroad, for all men and women to 
hear—and take warning, thereby! But, because of my 
peculiar position as a doctor, I must perforce keep 
silence. Have no fear, then, monsieur, on that account. 
I shall not give you away, as they say. Only mark this, 
if ever I hear that you have violated my promise of 
secrecy; if ever I learn that a woman on this island, 
or anywhere else, has fallen—through you—into that 
abyss into which only women can fall, then—I shall 
speak!” 

She paused, stooping to pick up the Frenchman’s 
revolver, still lying at her feet. 

“Now will you escort me to the cavern of Ra, mon¬ 
sieur? Our friends will be growing anxious on our 
behalf; we have delayed fully half-an-hour.” 

Leturc bowed. 

“Mad’moiselle has won the first round,” he murmured 
obsequiously. “I congratulate mad’moiselle.” 

He proffered his arm, and, as they moved away, 
the shadowy listeners of the forest whispered and drew 
together, the leaves rustling like a hundred ghostly 
dresses as the faint, warm breeze of the night blew elfin 
kisses to the moon, and set the slender branches astir 
and a-dancing for all the world as though they were 
suddenly embarrassed and confused by what they had 
overheard. . . , 


XVII 


BA 

They had not proceeded many yards, however, before 
they became aware that someone was approaching. 
They could hear him, if the unknown was indeed a man, 
crashing through the undergrowth quite close at hand, 
to the accompaniment of distressingly audible im¬ 
precations. 

Quite suddenly, just, in fact, as Leturc was about 
to challenge this irate newcomer, a tall masculine figure 
stepped abruptly into their path, his white tropic 
clothes lending him a singularly ghostly appearance. 
At the sight of them, he gave vent to an exclamation of 
intense gratification. 

“Oh, there you are! Where on earth have you been, 
and what in Heaven’s name have you been doing?” 

“Why—Howard!” cried Lilian. 

“Verily,” assented Beaumont. “But you have not 
answered my questions.” 

“We—got lost,” she explained, glancing towards her 
companion for confirmation. 

“But, yes,” agreed Leturc. “Most utterly and hope¬ 
lessly lost.” 

Beaumont laughed. 

“That comes of trying to give us the slip. Doris 
found herself in a similar predicament, it appears, but 
her ‘jungle sense’ is more perfectly developed than 
yours. Come along.” 

It was evident to Lilian that he wished her to forget 
the circumstances which had so unexpectedly, and un- 
159 


160 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


known to him, led to her subsequent denouement with 
the Frenchman. His attitude seemed to her to indicate 
a certain contrition, for throughout the short walk to 
the cavern, where they found the rest of the little party 
impatiently awaiting their arrival, he chatted pleas¬ 
antly to them both: discussing the mundane and com¬ 
monplace with that peculiar avidity which invariably 
made a host of friends for him wherever he went—from 
Papua to Paris; round the world and back again. 

Grouped about the mouth of a small fissure in the 
rocky hillside, they found a number of rudely con¬ 
structed native ‘houses,’ the miasmic interiors of which 
were illuminated with every kind of media—from cheap 
crude-oil burnt in tin lamps to home-made wax candles 
of great length and slimness: instinctively the latter re¬ 
minded Vanda of the altar-lights of some great Cathe¬ 
dral. 

“Are you ready?” queried Grace of God, smiling 
betwitchingly at the Administrator. 

Beaumont, much to Kilgour’s secret amusement, 
blushed, as : 

“We are,” he said curtly. 

In single file they followed the lithe, almost feline 
figure of Grace of God through the narrow entrance to 
the strange temple of Ra—surely the most extraordi¬ 
nary and bizarre abode of wisdom it were possible to 
imagine. 

In a moment or two, a subdued radiance, emanating 
from an inner chamber as yet invisible to them, illumined 
the dark corridor they were traversing. A radiance as 
delicate and intangible as the last rays of sunlight 
dying upon peaks of eternal snow. But, unlike any sun¬ 
light on earth, this radiance, as they advanced, seemed 
to slip through all the seven phases of the spectrum— 
reverting at last to the delicate, diaphanous green of 
the fourth Primary colour. 


RA 161 

A low exclamation of wonder broke from Vanda’s 
lips as she glimpsed this fleeting phenomenon. 

“However do they do it?” she whispered. 

“What do you mean—the chiaroscuro effect?” asked 
Beaumont, overhearing her remark. 

“Yes; those swift, changing colours. Have they a 
lantern ?” 

“Dear me, no. This green glow is the natural il- 
luminant of the cavern. There is some peculiar un¬ 
known ore in the rock which emits a kind of phos¬ 
phorescent radiance. One gets the spectrum suggestion 
simply from the impingement of this light upon the 
other many varied seams, running strata-wise, in the 
cavern walls.” 

Suddenly Kilgour, who had been closely examining 
the rocks on either side of the corridor, leant forward 
precipitately and touched Beaumont’s shoulder. 

“Do you know,” he said, his voice tense with excite¬ 
ment, “what tinges this light green, Howard?” 

Beaumont shook his head. 

“Not the slightest,” he said. “Mineralogy has al¬ 
ways been a closed book to me. What does ‘tinge it 
green,’ as you say?” 

Kilgour hesitated, running his fingers caressingly 
along the bare face of the rock. 

“I may be wrong,” he continued apologetically. “In 
fact, I would wager all my slender possessions that I am 
mistaken.” 

Beaumont halted abruptly. 

“Look here,” he smiled. “You can’t put it over me 
like that, you know. What do you think causes this 
phosphorescence—some powerful natural agent? Ra¬ 
dium, for instance?” 

Leturc—ostentatiously interposing himself between 
the two men—bowed elaborately. 

“The wisdom of Monsieur is worthy of great admira- 


162 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


tion—but it is advisable that I should presume to point 
out to him that his supposition is erroneous. I, myself, 
have a littal science, and would inform him that radium, 
by nature of the geological formation of the islands of 
the Southern Hemisphere, could have no existence 
here-” 

“That’s all bunkum!” retorted Kilgour hotly. “I 
too, ‘have a little science,’ as you put it, and to the best 
of my knowledge radium can crop out practically any¬ 
where—irrespective of such conditions as you mention. 
For instance, is there any vast structural difference 
between the rock composing this cavern and the rock- 
flats of central Mexico, where many people believe 
radium—or rather uranium —to be? Again, we know 
that uranium is always slowly accumulating in the 
ocean, and is constantly being deposited in the ‘oozes’ 
at its bottom. It seems to me, therefore, that an island 
such as this is a very likely place in which to discover 
the element. Besides”—the speaker turned to Leturc— 
“what about this glow, this sort of phosphorescent 
radiance? How can you get behind that? 19 

Leturc laughed scornfully. 

“No human being could occupy a radium-impreg¬ 
nated cavern like this, without, at least, going blind. 
And, by and by, the bodily tissues would tend to de¬ 
compose . . .” 

“Ra is-” began Beaumont excitedly, but stopped 

abruptly as Kilgour said sharply: 

“The whole point is that this ore is not exposed. As 
far as I can tell, it seems to be shining through a thin, 
crystal-like coating—the rock-face, in fact. If it were 
exposed we should be conscious of heat: we could not 
stand the rays an instant. Ra could not dwell here a 
day were he subjected to direct contact with them. 
Chip the rock-face, crack it . . . and we should all be 




RA 


163 


compelled to escape as quickly as possible to save our 
sight.” 

“But that is absurd,” scoffed the Frenchman. “There 
is no radium in Charteris, monsieur. The theory is but 
worthy of a child!” 

“Thanks,” said Kilgour. “Have it your own way. 
In any case, I fail to see why you need be so infernally 
emphatic about it. One might think you wanted to 
stake a claim right away, and work the seams in secret.” 

Leturc smiled blandly. 

“ Diable —no. But I did not wish you to deceive your¬ 
selves. That was all, monsieur. Absolutely all.” 

The Administrator whistled, ignoring the argument. 

“By Jove-” He hummed a bar or two of a popu¬ 

lar music-hall ballad, then: “R-a-d-i-u-m,” he said 
softly: like that. . . . 

In the very centre of that vast shadowy inner cham¬ 
ber, lit so eerily by the mysterious arc-lights of Nature, 
there reposed a large, oval Pool of water. Surrounded 
by a rudely-chiselled parapet or ledge of rock, the 
liquid within, catching the sheen of those mysterious, 
all-pervading rays of light, resembled a lake of seething 
green fire: a gigantic cauldron, as it were, filled to the 
brim with some amazing occult Brew, concocted by 
Creatures unknown to the sight or mind of man— 
Creatures haunting the fringes of that sinister Hinter¬ 
land of the world wherein the Shapes and Shadows of 
Things forgather and make their abode: where the 
Elemental, the Demon and the Djinn—if such, indeed, 
there be—weave their macabre magic around the un¬ 
suspecting and the unwary: and where, on the confines 
of existence, the Spirits of all that is good and evil, 
beautiful and horrible, live and move and have their 
wraith-like being. . . . 

Little wonder was it, therefore, that a cry of amaze- 



164 ? 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


ment, almost of stupefaction, broke from the lips of 
Vanda Hardie, Kilgour and Leturc as their eyes beheld 
for the first time this flickering, lambent sheet of green, 
unearthly flame! 

Amid the absolute stillness pervading the sanctuary, 
as one might almost have called it, of the great Pool, 
the echo of their voices was flung back with almost 
terrifying clarity from the gloom-vague vault of the 
cavern . . . then silence—silence as profound and 
eternal as that of the tomb descended once more upon 
them, and time stood still. . . . 

When, a little later, Beaumont—in whom familiarity 
with the temple of Ra. had bred a certain amount of 
respectful contempt—struck a match to light a cigar¬ 
ette, the rasp of its tiny head against the sand-papered 
sides of the box provoked a muttered oath from Kil¬ 
gour and a stifled exclamation from Vanda. 

“Sorry,” said Beaumont laconically. “Why not try 
health-salts night and morning? I never could abide 
nerves!” 

“Is this—all?” asked Kilgour tensely. 

“Not quite.” 

“It is enough.” 

The Administrator laughed. 

“Pull yourself together, Monte. There’s nothing 
very terrible in a lake of reflected light, after all.” 

“Does he—crystal gaze, or something like that ?” 

“Who? Ra? Yes, if you care to put it that way. 

• . . Now!” 

Kilgour, turning hastily to ascertain the cause of the 
last hastily-spoken monosyllable, was surprised to see 
Grace of God prostrate upon the sandy floor of the 
cave: her face bowed to its dirty whiteness as though in 
prayer. 

“Is this a Mosque?” he queried, half facetiously. 

“Kind of,” assented Beaumont. “We’d better kneel 


RA 


165 


—I have no wish to hurt the old johnny’s feelings. 
Kneel, Vanda.” 

Observing that Doris and Lilian had instinctively 
dropped to their knees, the girl obeyed mutely. . . . 
From some remote, intangible eyrie in the blackness of 
the cavern came the sullen, hollow beating of a drum. 
Then, once again, absolute silence. . . . 

“My God-” breathed Kilgour, and gripped 

Vanda’s arm so fiercely that she winced with the sudden 
pain. 

Along the wide, sandy space in front of the green 
lake, the black, grotesque shadow of him passing phan¬ 
tom-like across its translucent clearness, ambled the 
nightmare mockery of what might—had God willed it 
otherwise—have been a man! 

Inexpressibly deformed, half-naked save for a large 
enfolding black cloak of some unknown material with 
which he swathed himself about, and with enormous ape¬ 
like arms outstretched to the rock-hewn parapet as 
though to support thereby the movements of his mis¬ 
shapen, bulging body—it seemed to Kilgour that no hu¬ 
man language possessed words terrible and loathsome 
enough to describe this being men called 4 Ra’! “Don’t 
look,” he almost hissed into Vanda’s tiny ear. “Vanda, 
darling, close your eyes—Ah! If I had only 
known . . .” 

Beaumont laughed shortly. 

“Yes, look , Vanda. It will enlarge your perspectives 
—teach you what Life, and God, really are. . . .” He 
smiled at Kilgour. “My dear fellow, you are the prey 
of environment. If you met this poor freak-creature 
on a New York sidewalk wearing on his chest a tin 
label, you would drop a dime into his hat!” 

But Kilgour’s attention had wandered, and, almost 
before the Administrator had finished speaking, the 



166 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


novelist had caught him by the arm and was shaking 
him excitedly- 

“Man—do you see his eyes? Have you noticed his 
eyes? 99 

Beaumont looked at him in bewilderment. 

“What do you mean? Whose eyes?” 

“The eyes of Ra! The eyes of the All-Wise!” 

“The poor beggar’s nearly blind, if that’s what you 
imply,” retorted Beaumont sharply. “They tell me 
that it is only with the greatest difficulty that he can 
interpret the visions manifest within his Pool. 
Rotten-■” 

“But—but-” Kilgour had risen to his feet; he 

could hardly speak coherently. “But—don’t you see? 
Don’t you understand?” 

Leturc, his pallid lips drawn closer together in one 
thin, unflexing line, shuffled a little closer; and even as 
he did so, the Administrator’s face blanched until it had 
assumed an almost leaden hue. 

“He is right . . .” he muttered incredulously. “Kil¬ 
gour is right, by Heaven!” 

“What does Monsieur mean?” cried Leturc. “What 
fool-story is he attempting to digest now?” 

Beaumont turned to him a face from out of which his 
dark eyes blazed like lanterns set in a death-mask. 

“Monsieur,” he retorted, “we never guessed—not one 
of us. But for Kilgour, the secret might never have 
come to light. Fools that we were—damned fools! 

“Radium,” he continued rapidly. “Don’t you see? 
This cavern is impregnated with radium. Look at his 
eyes”—pointing to the strange figure crouched against 
the parapet—“can’t you see how they are inflamed? 
It’s through constant exposure to the green light— 
radium light. Think of it, man! All the wealth of the 
world is garnered within these hills! Now , Monte, I 





RA 167 

know what treasure it was your father sought so long 
ago—now I know!” 

Kilgour, surprised in his own turn, gazed at the 
speaker incredulously. 

“But—but—do you mean to say my father was ac¬ 
tually searching for this cavern when he landed on 
Charteris? Was he —searching for radiumV y 

“I doubt it. You must remember that science to-day 
is a very different thing to the science of your father’s 
generation. You know, the old Kanaka legend which 
tells of vast treasure hidden away within the fastnesses 
of the Charteris mountains probably relates, as I told 
you in my reply to your first letter, to some jewel hoard 
or other amassed by an early tribal king or chieftain. 
Now I believe, personally, that this legend is not with¬ 
out foundation. I believe it to be extremely probable 
that the only possible access to this hoard is by way of 
this cavern—the temple of Ra. Further, I believe that 
Ra himself is probably the only living creature having 
knowledge of its whereabouts. In your father’s time— 
when he was trading in the South Seas—radium was 
an unknown element; jewel hoards on the other hand 
were part and parcel of existence in a sphere where 
lawlessness, piracy, and the whole gamut of untamed 
barbarism was to be met with. Consequently, a jewel 
hoard such as the one which forms the basis of this 
legend would never have achieved so great a notoriety, 
nor have been handed—in the form of a treasured and 
supreme mystery—from generation to generation un¬ 
less it had been somehow or other invested with the 
glamour of superstition and the inevitable allurement 
of the Unknown! 5 ' 

“Yes,” said Kilgour, unsteadily, “go on-” 

“What was that aura of superstition surrounding the 
legend? What was this strange allurement—this ap¬ 
peal to the native mind—which has kept the tale burn- 



168 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


ing, torch-like, for so many years? I know now—it 
was the fact that it was concealed in what must surely 
have seemed to primitive intellects to be an abode of 
demons incarnate! A cavern forever lit with green fire! 
. . . That is why no South Sea Islander has dared to 
steal that unknown treasure; that is why no searchers 
have penetrated these gloomy chambers in the hills. 
Fear—fear of the Unknown—has held them back! And 
because your father had ascertained the whereabouts of 
this strange hiding-place, and had sought entrance to 
the cave, the natives had attacked him and his little 
company of followers, determined, at all cost, to keep 
their treasure in their possession even though they were 
actually too cowardly to search for it themselves! He 
—your father—was murdered because he was in pos¬ 
session of their secret. Or-” 

Beaumont broke off sharply, a sudden frown cor¬ 
rugating his high forehead. 

Leturc and Kilgour glanced at him eagerly. 

“Yes?” queried the latter. “Or- Finish it, 

man!” 

Beaumont shrugged. 

“Or- Well, isn’t it fairly obvious? Perhaps 

some other member of his crew had also been made 
aware of the true nature of their visit to Charteris, 
and, in order to gain possession of that coveted secret, 
did him in, as people say. It is reasonable to suppose 
that the leader of the expedition—your father—had 
plans on his person: charts, maps, diagrams, showing 
the whereabouts of the Hoard.” 

“You mean my father may actually have been mur¬ 
dered by one of his own crew?” 

“Quite possibly.” 

Yanda, who, with Lilian and Doris, had been listen¬ 
ing in amazement to the strange conversation, said 
quietly: 





RA 


169 


“Father was a trader before he became a missionary.” 
She looked at Kilgour. “You remember he told you, 
dear, that first night at the parsonage.” 

He nodded briefly. 

“I remember. . . . Our destinies seem curiously, 
inextricably linked with the South Seas, don’t they?” 

“I wonder if he knew of the existence of this bullion, 
or whatever it is ?” smiled Lilian, unconsciously voicing 
the thought which had been uppermost in the minds 
of all. 

“He had heard of it,” assented Beaumont. “In fact, 
we have often discussed the subject. He agrees with 
me that our friend Ra here probably holds the key to 
the whole situation.” 

“Then, if your theory is correct, Beaumont,” ob¬ 
served Kilgour, “it was probably Ra himself who stirred 
up the natives and urged them to attack my father’s 
expedition.” 

“I shouldn’t be at all surprised” 1 —dryly. 

He glanced at the eerie pool, now glowing green 
with the reflection of the luminous walls. 

“And just to think,” he said savagely, “that I have 
visited this cavern twenty times or more and never 
guessed the solution to the mystery. Even the Pastor 
himself has been here once or twice with me. Monte, 
in justice to you, we must accord you the honour of 
having discovered what may prove to be the world’s 
richest radium mines. Jove —what a report I shall have 
to send to headquarters next month!” 

Leturc smiled blandly. 

“It is inconceivable to me that a man of Monsieur’s 
intellect can so easily credit a theory both wrong and 
ridiculous. Radium indeed!—pah!” He glanced 
maliciously at Kilgour: “As for you, monsieur, I would 
counsel you to indulge no more in idle speculations. 


170 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


Radium, I tell you for the last time, is non-existent in 
the South Seas !” 

As the low, jeering words fell from the incensed 
Frenchman’s lips, the harsh clang of a gong froze them 
to silence. . . . 

Beaumont grimaced with lamentable disrespect, and: 

“We are forgetting our manners,” he said. “We 
have kept the All-Wise waiting fully a quarter of an 
hour whilst we embarked upon a discussion relating to 
such trivialities as hidden treasure. Dear me, I must 
make our apologies-” 

So saying, he stepped forward on to the strip of sand 
stretched, like a bleached carpet, before the lake: bow¬ 
ing low, he addressed the huddled figure seated upon the 
parapet encircling that shimmering oval of light. He 
spoke in Samoan, quietly and placatingly, his clear, cul¬ 
tured voice projected through that uncanny auditorium 
as though he enunciated through some sweet-toned 
horn. It became obvious that Ra was well-pleased with 
his rhetoric, which, Kilgour had guessed, was of a 
flattering nature. 

He bowed his large, grotesque head, which was white 
and as totally devoid of hair as the skin of a new-born 
babe; stretching out his long, apish arms towards the 
little group as though supplicating them to give him 
their attention for a little while. Then, crouching above 
the surface of the waters, he peered into their changing 
light and shadow, seeking to translate to them the 
things he saw therein, as though through a glass very 
darkly . . . for the radium—if it were radium—had 
rimmed his eyes scarlet, and the balls were bloodshot 
and inflamed so that he could scarcely see. . . , 

Thin and quavering, a mere tuneless thread of sound, 
his voice fell upon their ears. A dim, undulating echo, 
as it seemed, borne to them over immeasurable distances, 
its cadences wrought upon their already highly strung 



RA 


171 


nerves like the wailing of grey ghosts in an underworld 
of perpetual shadow and gloom. It was like the voice 
of the dead calling to the living across that bottomless 
gulf no girdered human bridge may ever span; or that 
black, silent River over which no soul, crossing, may 
ever return. 


XVIII 


THE POOL OF GREEN FIRE 

It is more than probable that you will not understand 
Samoan—or, for the matter of that, any of the lan¬ 
guages of Oceania. You may, possibly, have amassed 
scattered words and phrases: isolated passages and 
idioms, perhaps, by reason of chance conversations you 
have held with men and women who have been there. 
Books of travel and exploration may, if you are any¬ 
thing of a student or bag blew , have given you a work¬ 
manlike comprehension of our dialects here below the 
Line, or—you may in addition have travelled widely 
yourself, and be as intimately acquainted with the 
Island world as are any of its brown or black inhabit¬ 
ants, or that white-clad, white-faced little coterie which 
ever seeks to turn the lime-light of civilization upon the 
happy, indolent children who all day play in God*s 
Earthly Paradise. . . . But, be that as it may, 
whether you are in a position to boast a widespread ac¬ 
quaintance with the Polynesians and Melanesians gen¬ 
erally, or a bosom companionship with members of the 
Consular and Administrative Service of the South Sea 
Islands, I doubt greatly your ability to grasp even the 
essentials of that hybrid dialect—compounded prima¬ 
rily of genuine Samoan and thickly overlaid with God 
knows how many insular ramifications, amplifications, 
and complications—in which Ra addressed his small yet 
avid audience of seven, amid the oddly intermingled 
substance and shadow of the Cavern of the great Pool. 

I propose, therefore, to give as accurate a transla¬ 
tion as is possible under the circumstances of that most 
extraordinary and most wonder-provoking prophecy— 
172 


THE POOL OF GREEN FIRE 


173 


delivered without any further hesitation or pause than 
I have endeavoured to indicate in the following render¬ 
ing—in which the All-Wise essayed to describe to Beau¬ 
mont and his companions the things which were revealed 
in the depths of those mysterious waters as in a mirror; 
and the visions by the aid of which he purported to 
foresee those terrible events which in the not too far 
distant future would—assuming, of course, their verity 
—bring their world (the world in which Vanda, Kilgour, 
and Lilian; the Pastor and Mrs. Hardie, and even 
Beaumont himself, moved at present so comparatively 
serenely) crashing thunderously about their ears in a 
chaotic, cataclysmal ruin too appalling to contemplate! 

“0 depths of light and darkness, wherein all manner 
of things do move and shift and strap. Idee moonbeams 
on a wind-kissed sea; let me gaze within thy perfect 
mirror—I who am thy Master and thy Lord! Reveal 
to me the future, that I may peer beyond the curtains 
of its night - 

. . What is that? . . . Gloom everywhere . . . 
is this a vision of the grave? Not so! Lit by the green 
fires of my temple, awake, 0 mighty Spirit of the Pool 
— awake! Canst slumber still, and let these rays of 
light burn thy tight-closed eyelids through? . . . 
Awake! ’Tis I — I who call thee — I thy Master , the 
great Chieftain , Ra!” 

A harsh cackle of laughter resounded through the 
cavern. Beaumont, who, with the exception of Leturc, 
Doris, and the native girl, Grace of God, alone fully 
understood the words of the water-diviner, motioned 
them to be silent, as: 

“Ah! Gracious Spirit, lift the veil, I pray, that I , so 
unworthy m thy sight, shouldst read the message of the 
past. . . . What! Dost thou not hear!” 



174 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


A fierce frenzy of passion shook the hideous frame, as 
with closed fists the speaker beat against the side of the 
parapet. Then, suddenly, he sank to his knees before it; 
turning to the watchers grouped beside the cavern 
entrance a face distorted by a ghastly smile. 

“0 Gracious Spirit, most compassionate One , stoop¬ 
ing from thy throne in the eternal heavens thou hast 
heard the sound of my pleading wafted to thine abode — 
where Fetuao, the Morning Star, is; where suns set not, 
nor moons wax or wane; and thou hast listened to the 
message of my voice . . . and thou answerest. Lo! 
... I see a great group of people, ever-moving, like 
a river at flood time, or the ocean which forever frets 
to burst the barriers of the age-old reef . . . . One 
there is among them who lies prone, his tortured mind 
straying down divers paths and dim-lit, lonely ways. 
A fight there has been—a grim, fierce fight—and he 
whose body is trampled by the press of the victor's heed¬ 
less feet clasps one bleeding hand to his breast, defend¬ 
ing with his swiftly-ebbing strength the secret that lies 
close hid against his heart. And, by and by, their search 
availing nothing, they leave him alone—to die. 

“But — stay!—one there is among them whose face , 
like that of the huddled creature upon the grass, is 
white. A fine young face—yet transfigured with lust 
for wealthy and much craving for gold and gems. Softly 
peering, hither and thither, as though in fear, into the 
trees and bushes surrounding them, he creeps upon his 
dying master. . . . With trembling hands he bares 
that still heaving breast and fumbles awhile. . . . Pres¬ 
ently, a gleam of triumph on his clear white face, he 
produces that for which it seemed he had sought m 
vain—a tiny package, and a canvas-backed map. . . . 

“But see, his master is not dead! As the young man 
slips the package into his bosom, the other clutches his 


THE POOL OF GREEN FIRE 


175 


arm with stiffening fingers, as though to hold him 
prisoner and compel him to yield his dl-gained prize to 
its rightful owner once again! 

“Mad with fear—the sweat streaming down his face 
like drops of the Pacific rain—the young man strikes 
his master's forehead with his strong, bare fist. Then, 
like some hunted jungle beast, he turns to fly. . . ** 

The thin, plaintive voice ceased abruptly, and, with 
a puzzled frown on his face, Beaumont glanced at his 
companions. 

“Dramatic—but not, apparently, relevant. I won¬ 
der what he’s driving at?” 

Kilgour, to whom he had addressed the question, did 
not reply. He was staring, as though fascinated, at 
this strange time-traveller who—he was later to learn— 
was attempting to describe nothing less than the murder 
of his own father! 

Then, to the brain of the astute Beaumont, there 
darted a sudden, astounding conviction: a conviction 
which, with the water-diviner’s next words, became a 
dreadful certainty. . . . 

“. . . But this man, this man who cherished a great 
secret and whose trusted servitor had betrayed him and 
robbed him of that secret, was not dead. The coward's 
blow the terror-maddened felon had dealt had not ut¬ 
terly extinguished the faint spark of life that still 
glowed in his body. It needed a bright, curved blade, 
clutched by an unseen white hand, to do that. And lo! 
as that knife whistled through the stUl air, even as it 
plunged to its gory hilt in the quivering, prostrate form 
of the doomed master, there was borne to his numbing 
senses the sownd of mocking laughter . . . the laughter 
of one who, hidden m the shade of the artu trees, had 
leaned out from his ambush to release the life-blood of 


176 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


a friend , and whose evil green eyes were ablaze with the 
lust and greed for gold which spurred him to commit 
the crime! 

“And which of these two, think ye, was the greater 
traitor—the fear-crazed youth who had struck a fool¬ 
ish, cruel blow in self-defence , or the man—not so very 
much older—who lay concealed m the artu tree and 
completed the work of destruction: the slaying of the 
one to whom he had sworn faithful allegiance even at 
the beginning of their ill-fated quest? 99 

“Mon Dieu—Mon Dieu! Command him to be silent! 
Monsieur, I entreat thee to bid him hold his peace!” 

“What on earth-?” Beaumont spun around in 

amazement. “What—Good God, man, what is the 
matter? 99 

Leturc turned to him a face contorted with passion; 
he was trembling in every limb. 

“This—this—O, but it is terrific—absurd! Mon¬ 
sieur, command this prating fool to hold his tongue!” 

A sudden gleam leapt into Beaumont’s dark eyes. 
His lips curved in a sneer. 

“What? Is Monsieur then frightened of a sooth¬ 
sayer! By all that’s wonderful, monsieur, you make me 
laugh!" 

Leturc quailed before his gaze. His puffed, white 
face seemed to sag in great corrugations about his 
cruel moist lips. 

“I was only—joking, as you say. Pouf! Let him 
continue, but”—his voice grew oddly flat and metallic— 
“but this is a waste of time. Surely Monsieur would 
not have us listen to the babblings of an idiot—a 
knave?” 

Beaumont’s mouth closed in a thin, inflexible line. 

“Monsieur would be well advised to hold his peace,” 
he said. “I, at least, am interested!” 


THE POOL OF GREEN FIRE 


177 


Ji . . . The vision changes; the scene fades; all grows 
dark. Wait with me a little while, strangers, till the 
clouds disperse and the Spirit of the waters withdraws 
again the veil. . . .” 

In absolute silence, scarcely breathing, and with no 
sound to break the stillness of the cavern save the muf¬ 
fled beating of their hearts, the little group of listen¬ 
ers sat motionless—while the leaden wings of Time 
flapped mechanically to and fro, and the minutes 
dropped into the abyss of eternity like tears falling 
from the beloved’s eyes. . . . 

“What have we here? What place is this? What 
abode of darkness and shadow? ... I see, as it were, 
a small and white-walled apartment, curiously situated, 
it would seem, beneath the street of a strange, vast city 
filled with teeming millions of people hurrying to and 
fro about their business—which is unending as eternity . 
Within this small apartment, I perceive two men deep in 
conversation, one with the other: and, though their 
words are unheard by me, yet I know that their purport 
be wholly evil. Stay! What is this, O mighty Spirit of 
the Pool? Something in the face of one of these men is 
strangely familiar. Those eyes—those green and cruel 
eyes! Have I not beheld their baleful glare but a mo¬ 
ment ago? Do l not recognize those large and deadly 
hands? Hands so swift and so adept to clutch a 
knife. . . . 

“And now, behold! the face of the other emerges from 
the shadows which enfold with bat-like wings the scene 
depicted within my lake of light. A face strange to me, 
yet terrible in its strangeness—a sallow, yellow face: a 
death-mask, seemingly, out of which peer a pair of evil, 
narrow eyes: sinister eyes, to whom the inward illumina¬ 
tion ever welling from a heart filled with mercy is un- 


178 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


known. His cheeks are sunken and scarred with a dis¬ 
ease which, so numerous are they, might truly have 
riddled the flesh with holes -” 

“Small-pox,” whispered Beaumont tensely. 

“He leads” the thin reed-like voice ran on, “a young 
maiden by the hand. The beauty of the Mornmg Star 
is not greater than hers: the surpassing loveliness of 
Dawn is not more exquisite than her flower-like face. 
. . . But stay! At the touch of his fingers her flesh 
withers, as a rose leaf beneath the myriad feet of the 
caterpillar. As its bloom fades, and its petals fall, so 
doth her cheek blanch and her youmg body corrupt and 
perish before his eyes . . . and the blossom he hath 
coveted so ardently lies, yellow and dead, in the dust 
beneath his feet. . . . Where hidden from sight are 
heaped the trampled remains of a hundred other flowers 
that once were fair as she!” 

Beaumont glanced surreptitiously at the faces of his 
companions, haggard and corpse-like in that strange 
green glow which illumined this eerie, age-old cavern in 
the hillside. Then, with a curiously masculine desire 
to convince himself that, as yet, his own sang-froid was 
unshaken: 

“Bounga Sedap Di Pakey Layou Debouang,” he said 
mysteriously, and lit a cigarette. 

“What on earth are you talking about?” asked Kil- 
gour irritably; simultaneously—so great is the force of 
example—fumbling for his own pipe. 

Beaumont smiled. 

“When the Flower is pleasing to man he wears it,” 
he said; ‘ when it fades he throws it away! That is an 
old Malay proverb. Have you never heard it? It 
struck me as being rather—what shall we say?—apt?” 



THE POOL OF GREEN FIRE 


179 


“Now behold!—again the vision changes. I see a 
strange ship tossing on the bosom of a wild and restless 
sea. Many people throng her decks, but with the excep¬ 
tion of a mere half-dozen or so their faces are colour¬ 
less, and alien blood flows in their veins. Many wear 
their hair long like a woman, and diligently plaited. 

. . . Whilst concealed beneath their plain, blue tunics 
they carry gleaming, curved knives. . . 

“Chinks,” whispered Beaumont. “Don’t altogether 

follow this Act myself. Still-” He broke off 

abruptly as the sibilant, complaining voice ran on: 

“On board this mysterious vessel, moving hither and 
thither about her lighted decks, I see the tall form of the 
Evil One I have already described unto thee. By rear¬ 
son of his dignity and haughty bearing, it would seem 
that he hath great command over those who labour with 
rope and wheel and compass to bring his ship to her 
appointed destination. He is clad in rich raiment of 
jewels and costly silks—a man possessed of much wealth 
and worldly power. Yet I trust him not, for he is 
cunning as the jackal and wily as the fox. His feet 
follow devious paths, and the ways of his mind are dark 
and tortuous . His quest, though unknown to me as 
yet, is of base motive: and in the waters it would seem 
that he hath cast covetous eyes upon this fair island 
where we now sojourn—for strange, indeed, are the 
secrets locked within its earthy breast, and not alone 
hath he essayed to discover them. From what I have 
already interpreted, that is known to thee. . . . Also, 
he is evil, this scar-faced Stranger, in that he lusteth 
after gold and is ever unsatisfied. He taketh a delight 
in the limbs of a woman, and the thoughts born of his 
brain are of poisonous fruitage. The edifice of his 
greatness is false, and the foundations thereof shall 
totter and fall. 



180 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


“All these things and more shall he revealed unto thee 
in due season—for the threads of his mortal life are 
strangely intertwined with thine. If there he woman¬ 
kind in thy midst, arm and prepare, for he seeketh one 
amongst ye to trample her beneath his feet into the very 

dust—the very slime of the Pit - Even as I have 

beheld this same thing within the circle of the sacred 
lake of Ra. Take counsel together, therefore, that 
while ye sleep the eagles steal not the young lamb from 
the fold. . . ” 

With a convulsive movement the bowed, sinister figure 
turned towards them. From the shadowed cavities of 
his hideous half-brute face the eyes of the water-diviner 
blazed—whether with the fires of insanity or rarest 
prophecy, who could say?—into those of his spellbound 
audience as, with one gigantic arm outflung towards 
Beaumont: 

“O Man of Wisdom,” he cried, “take heed of the 
Serpent already coiled within thy bosom! He who 
standeth at thy right hand even now in the guise of a 
friend -” 

“Crack!” 

A livid tongue of flame spanned the space between 
the speaker and the tiny group of humans clustered 
about the entrance to the cavern; and a cloud of acrid 
smoke—tinged oddly green—swirled upwards from the 
slender muzzle of Leturc’s revolver. 

“By God!” cried Beaumont. “You’ve killed him!” 

Dimly to their ears drifted the ghoulish echo of far- 
distant laughter . . . whilst suddenly, from the very 
centre of the waters of the lake, a fish—like a whirling 
flambeau of fire—leapt high into the air and fell back 
into the mysterious depths from whence it had 
arisen. . . . 




XIX 


AT MACWHIRTEr’s 

From a bright disc of gold suspended against the blue 
draperies of the sky like an enormous polished platter, 
the sun drops slowly westward at eventide until its radi¬ 
ance dies in a glory of flame and fire behind the wall of 
the horizon, and is gone. Man marks its passage with 
a smile, secure in the certain knowledge of its resurrec¬ 
tion at the dawn of each new day. Yet for a brief period 
there is no sun, and only the supreme egoism of the 
human race, together with an inherent belief in the 
infallibility of a scheme of creation which we are at all 
times only too ready to criticize and condemn, assures 
us that the gaping maws of space have not swallowed 
our pet arc-light up and thereby shrouded the earth in 
a funeral-pall of endless night. 

So it was with Andrew MacWhirter, assistant Ad¬ 
ministrator of, and retired trader on, the island of 
Charteris. Many years ago, long before the regime of 
Howard Beaumont and Pastor Hardie, he had domi¬ 
nated with superb brilliance the zenith of Samoan 
Island commercial life: a star of the first magnitude, a 
gem of the purest and most translucent water—re¬ 
nowned from Upolu to the Dangerous Archipelago as 
the straightest, whitest, cutest, and most blood-an*- 
thunder trader the wild, cold North had disgorged upon 
the silver beaches of the Island world! 

Now, like the sun, he had set; and advancing years 
had mercilessly bowed his once sapling figure and dyed 
his crisp fair hair white as scud upon the shoulder of a 
Pacific wave. He had come out to the South Seas 
181 


182 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


twenty years previous to the time of which I write: the 
last ten of which had been spent on Charteris. He had 
come out to forget. . . . 

While still a young man, roaming the hills and dales 
of his beloved Trossachs, the maggot of a great love 
had been born in the brain of Andrew MacWhirter. He 
had wooed and won, more by his own remorseless per¬ 
sistence than anything else, the hand of a bewitching, 
fairy-lassie to whom the ardour of his passion had been 
as a whirlwind, or the thundering waves of an irre¬ 
sistible sea. But MacWhirter—like so many good men 
*—was poor. All day he furrowed the fields with his 
plough, spitting ceaselessly upon the palms of his 
gnarled hands to cool the hot blisters his labour raised 
there, in order to provide bread and meat for his girl- 
wife and, hence, more delicate sustenance for their tiny 
infant son. But—gnarled, toilworn hands are not fit 
instruments with which to caress the soft, white form 
of a woman—as MacWhirter learned all too soon. 

One night, just as the gauze-like mist characteristic 
of mountainous districts enveloped their little farm¬ 
stead in a garment of white and grey, he returned home 
to find the house silent and empty. For the first time 
since his marriage—a brief twelve or fourteen months 
ago—no rippling peal of laughter greeted him from 
some shadowy corner of the quaint old kitchen: no gen¬ 
tle, warm arms reached up to draw his weather-beaten 
face downwards to a bosom soft as swansdown: no 
tender tremulous lips sought his forehead: no deep, 
unfathomable grey eyes smiled into his own their mes¬ 
sage of welcome and love. . . . 

Like many men brought suddenly face to face with 
the big problems of life, he found it at first impossible 
to realize the thing that had happened to him. He was 
too stunned, too numbed—physically and mentally—to 
grasp the situation. He found himself wholly incapable 


AT MACWHIRTER’S 


183 


of coping with it; of thinking out a line of action; of 
formulating, as it were, a plan of campaign. One fact 
alone stood out in awful magnitude from the meaning¬ 
less chaos of his thoughts—stark, brutal, overwhelm¬ 
ing: his wife, his loved one, his treasure, his heart’s 
delight, his wee woman had left him—abandoned him, 
deserted him, flung him with one flick of her tiny pink 
fingers into the deepest cesspool of Hell . . . for an¬ 
other man! 

It is only when Tragedy has knocked at our doors, 
laid waste our homes and desolated our lives that peo¬ 
ple think fit to tell us they have seen her dismissing her 
taxicab at our gate! In the days that followed, a hun¬ 
dred rumours of secret visits to the farm on the hill¬ 
side: of a finely dressed stranger: of tender farewells 
in the glades nestling between the MacWhirter home 
and the little Scotch village drowsing in the valley be¬ 
low: of stolen kisses and smooth-tongued protestations 
of devotion: of plans made in the fond belief that no 
living soul could see or hear, reached the agonized 
young farmer. God, what a fool —what a blind, trust¬ 
ing fool —he had been! Murder dwelt in his heart at 
that time: a goading devil, prompting him to seek out 
this creature who had at one stroke laid bare the blos¬ 
soming garden of his life, and utterly destroy him. 
But pride had held him back. If she had gone, as he 
believed, of her own free will; if she had obeyed the 
honeyed voice of the serpent, had succumbed to the lure 
of soft worsted and cultured speech—she could go! He 
would not hold her back. He would not step into so 
much as the remotest environs of her new life to insult 
her—and himself—with promises of forgiveness and 
overtures of reconciliation. But—God, if he had only 
known in time, in time! . . . One of the most curious 
things in life is why so many normally decent women 
prefer gold and fine raiment and the pawing fingers of 


184 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


the beast to homespun and corduroy and the reverent 
hands of a man who truly loves. . . . 

Some six months after the tragedy which had thus 
blighted his life and made even mere existence a mock¬ 
ery and a sham; when the mountain sides were white- 
bosomed in drifts of snow and the keen, cruel winds of 
an unusually severe winter swept shrilly down the dales 
and through the stripped and quivering trees—there 
came, one night, a wayfarer to his door, seeking 
warmth and shelter, and mayhap a clean, white-linen’d 
bed on which to fall into that last deep sleep that 
knows no waking save in a land where snows and winds 
are not, nor any of the temporal things of this 
chequered mortal life. 

He found her, the next morning, on his doorstep— 
stiff, cold and dead. Amid the howling of the wind and 
the sullen thud of slipping snow upon the roof-top, her 
knocking—if she had knocked, indeed—had been so 
drowned that even his ever-straining ears had failed to 
detect it. Found her lying there—asleep. A soft smile 
parting her blue, frozen lips; the breeze ruffling her 
damp, stiff hair . . . clasping to her breast a wee dead 
girl-child. The tiny, perfect thing that should have 
been Ms. His to fondle and caress; his—but one dare 
not probe too far into the inmost sanctuary of a man’s 
soul. . . . 

Of his own son, the chuckling, prattling boy who had 
been the source of so much joy to them both during 
those last happy months before she had left him, he 
could find no trace. He instituted inquiries everywhere. 
He spent, willingly, almost all of his meagre savings— 
but young Andy had vanished as completely as if the 
grave which had swallowed his mother and the baby of 
her shame had gulped him up too. And in time Mac- 
Whirter decided that he was dead also . . . and had 
his name inscribed on the cold marble slab that alone 


AT MACWHIRTER’S 


185 


remained in a little bleak cemetery on the hillside to tes~ 
tify to a disinterested world that he had once existed. 

Then—the Islands. 

MacWhirter did not attempt to scuttle his grief in 
the mesmeric whirlpool of riotous living. He had not 
even the wherewithal to live riotously. He came out to 
the Pacific to—as I have said—forget. And if forget¬ 
fulness represented an Ultimate Shore which his frail 
human bark might never, while life lasted, reach, at 
least the flying spindrift purged and cleansed his soul, 
and the clean, glorious breath of the Trades brought 
back health and power to sapped brain and flabby 
muscle. And the Pacific—fickle, tantalizing mistress 
of a man’s heart—heaped her rarest gifts upon his 
favoured knees, so that he became wealthy beyond his 
wildest dreams of avarice. . . . While her less-appre¬ 
ciated lovers drifted to ruin upon her coral strands and 
blue lagoons; were blown willy-nilly upon the four 
winds of heaven; or had their skulls split to decorate 
her palmetto-leaf mansions, or swing clanking about 
the bloated black stomachs of her courtesans and min¬ 
isters of state. 

Strange, grim Game—Life l 

Then Age—odd Prompter forever watching within 
the wings of Time’s theatre—called him aside and laid 
his hand upon the fevered, hectic pulse, and the man 
who had come out to the Pacific to forget disposed of 
the slender, green topsail schooners (he possessed five) 
to which primarily he owed the bulk of his fortune, and 
after appointing a select body of managers and suitable 
staffs to carry on the business transactions of his eight 
or ten large Stores scattered more or less all over the 
Samoan district, he built himself a large white bunga¬ 
low in the interior of Charteris—to which island he 
had from his earliest days in the South Seas always 
referred as ‘home’—and settled down to accustom him- 


186 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


self to the enervating influence of the retired life as it 
was lived in the Pacific. And a year or so afterwards, 
Howard Beaumont was appointed United States Ad¬ 
ministrator on the island. 

From the first, these two men, apparently the direct 
antithesis of one another, became close friends. The 
barrier of age was but a bridge, as it were, over which 
each one might cross as often as he pleased for the pur¬ 
pose of gaining some information, some new perspective 
of life, some broadened outlook or view-point which 
would be of no little individual benefit and which could 
at the same time further stabilize the ties of mutual 
affection and esteem each felt for the other. And, by 
and by, at Beaumont’s urgent request, the dour old 
Scotsman was appointed Assistant Administrator— 
accepting as his share of their joint responsibilities 
full control of the interior provinces of Charteris, 
while the American confined himself strictly to gov¬ 
erning its commercial and social activities: to the writ¬ 
ing of reports and the amassing of statistics, and to 
purely official jurisdiction. A happier arrangement it 
would have been difficult to conceive. Had MacWhirter, 
like so many Europeans who find themselves in the 
tropics with nothing to do, ‘gone native,’ things might 
have been different. As it was: 

“Look here, Mac,” said Beaumont, impatiently 
throwing the evil-smelling stump of his cigarette into 
a guava bush, “I never needed your advice as much as 
I do now. Things are, to put it bluntly, damned un¬ 
healthy—and I’m not sure that I know exactly why!” 

MacWhirter pulled implacably at his pipe, while the 
younger man, obviously in a state of acute nervous 
tension, lit a fresh cigarette, snapping the clasp of his 
silver case with an unreasonable force calculated, had 
it been of that weak variety invariably stocked by the 
average European jeweller, to sprain it beyond repair. 


AT MACWHIRTER’S 187 

MacWhirter glanced at him from beneath shaggy, 
leonine brows. 

“Ye say the Frenchy-fellow fired his pistol ?” 

“Yes. I can’t think how on earth he missed his 
target. The range was-” 

“Never mind the range. A mon’ll no be shootin’ the 
All-Wise—not tae my thinkin’. Nine lives ain’t in the 
runnin’ when it’s that fellow Ra ye’re considerin’. Och, 
mon, no mortal gun’ll spit its lead in 9 imF* 

Beaumont smiled in spite of himself. 

“I think you’re right, Mac.” 

“Right ?”■—the ex-trader expectorated copiously. 
“There’s no’ a doot aboot it!” 

“All the same,” went on Beaumont, “it’s made mat¬ 
ters infernally awkward. I could clap the beggar in 
irons, but—after all, it’s no joke to stand still and be 
publicly damned before a Government official as he was 
to-night. Heaven knows what more the All-Wise would 
have said had not-” 

“It’s the little lassie with the golden-hair, then, 
you’re afraid for?” broke in the other placidly. 

“Vanda, you mean? Yes. Mac—there’s some 
devilish business on somewhere, and I can’t get the 
hang of it at all!” 

MacWhirter considered. 

“Is she a good girl?” he asked unexpectedly. 

Beaumont flicked a grey pencil of ash from his 
cigarette. 

“Sound through and through, in my opinion. She 
was learning music in New York, and threw it up to 
come out here to her people. The Pastor, I think, was 
annoyed. They were hoping she’d make a name, you 
know-” 

“I dinna hold with the Stage.” 

“Oh, I don’t suppose she’d have gone on the stage— 
not yet, anyway. Concerts and such-like. Besides, she 





188 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


was in the charge of Gerald Randall, the affluent New 
York financier who, as you know, was the bosom friend 
of Mrs. Hardie’s brother, Rex; and who has, out of 
pure generosity and kindness of heart, educated both 
the girls to a ’degree their poor father could never 
have reached in his most sanguine dreams.” 

“Yet he let her fall i’ love with yon writin’ mon?” 

“Kilgour? Oh, Kilgour is white—and dead square. 
Besides, you can take it from me that Randall knows 
what he is about. He would not permit the undesirable 
type of man to make love to his little Ward. Now, if 
I had a-” 

“Ye have not.” 

“—Well, if I had. Anyway, you know what I mean, I 
guess ?” 

“I ken all right. Ye’d let her wed this writer. Go 
on-” 

“Now where the mystery begins is right here: did 
Leturc follow her out to the Islands deliberately; and, 
if so, why? I have obtained certain information which 
more or less answers both these questions-” 

MacWhirter knocked out his pipe. 

“Tell us the story, laddie. Tak’ your time . . . 
they’re enjoying themselves in the hoose; I can hear the 
gramophone.” 

Beaumont turned his head. From the brightly-lit 
interior of the white bungalow behind them, the strains 
of a valse, deep, sensuous, and alluring, fell upon his 
ears: and the sound of merry laughter. 

“Lilian is an excellent hostess,” he said, half to him¬ 
self. Then: “It’s jolly good of you to let me turn 
them all loose in your place, Mac, like this. Now, when 
you get married again, I’ll-” 

“Stop!” said MacWhirter quietly. “We’ll no’ talk 
about that, Mr. Beaumont, if you please.” 

The Administrator laughed. 






AT MACWHIRTER’S 189 

“Very well. At the same time, I’m grateful to 
you.” 

“Regardin’ Miss Lilian,” continued the Scot with 
acumen, “ye’re a blame fool!” 

“And why?” 

“Ye know why! She’s pinin’ ner heart out for ye, 
and ye have-na the e’en tae see it. Och! Why dinna ye 
marry her, instead of a-carryin’ on with yon native 
lassie as puts the come-over on every dam’ lad on the 
island?” 

“You’re very mercenary.” 

“I’m talkin’ horse-sense, an’ ye will-na listen. Hoots, 
mon, ye make me fair sick!” 

“Well, we’ll change the subject then. What were 
we talking about? Ah, I remember. I told you I had 
obtained certain information-” 

“Which I want tae hear,” snapped MacWhirter. 

“Here goes, then. It all began on the night of 
Vanda’s arrival. We—Leturc, Kilgour, and myself— 
were invited to the parsonage for supper. A sort of 
celebration, you understand. Well, after the meal, 
w’hen we had all lit up, and sat chatting round the table, 
someone—I believe I was the culprit—started telling 
stories. We began quite gaily. I span a yarn or 
two . . . and then, in a moment of what I later learned 
to be extreme indiscretion, Miss Vanda requested Kil¬ 
gour to relate to the company an experience which she 
had recently had in New York’s Chinese settlement, and 
which, she further informed us, was really instrumental 
in inducing her to return to Charteris and leave the 
hectic whirl of city life behind for a time.” 

“Chinatown is a raw place! She no’ went there 
alone?” 

“Oh, no. Apparently, during the few months previ¬ 
ous to her leaving New York, she had struck up a 
questionable friendship with a Yiddish violinist and 



190 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


composer. I take it one of these so-called modernists 
who, from what I have read, at the moment seem to 
dominate the stage of contemporary musical life. Any¬ 
how, be that as it may, it transpires that this gentle¬ 
man one night—or rather early morning—persuaded 
her to accompany him to a well-known eating-house in 
the settlement. They indulged their appetites in a 
more or less innocuous fashion, and I suppose every¬ 
thing would have gone as happily as the proverbial 
marriage-bell had not her escort suddenly and alarm¬ 
ingly taken advantage of a moment’s faintness on 
Vanda’s part and become quite distressingly ‘fresh.’ ” 

“Meanin’?” 

“He forgot himself. Became amorous—dangerous. 
There was, I gather, a slight scene. She struck him, she 
told us. Well, naturally, they began to attract atten¬ 
tion, and a certain Oriental gentleman who happened 
to be present played the part of gallant, and delivered 
her from the clutches of the beast. In other words, he 
drove her home in his automobile. 

“But that is not all. Even this Chinaman—appar¬ 
ently a wealthy personage, of high rank—fell an instant 
victim to Vanda’s indisputable charms, and she had 
considerable difficulty in staving off his undesirable at¬ 
tentions. But she contrived to do so, somehow, and 
he consented to convey her home to her Uncle’s house, 
where, after depositing her upon the doorstep much as 
a parcel of laundry, he drove away again as quickly 
and as mysteriously as he had entered into her life. He 
gave her no clue, no intimation as to his identity; and 
to me, at least, there appeared something distinctly 
astonishing about the whole affair-” 

“Maybe he was afraid she’d make trouble because he 
had tried to fool about wi’ her? 

“Yes, I should have interpreted his action in that 
way, but for a most singular and unprecedented oc- 



AT MACWHIRTER’S 


191 


currence. Do you know, Mac, at the precise instant 
Vanda described his leaving her thus, Leturc calmly 
butted in and told us the Oriental’s name! Leturc, 
mark you—Leturc, who, one assumed, knew nothing 
whatever about either Vanda or her escapades. Leturc 
—an absolute stranger: a mere acquaintance of a few 
days’ standing: a travelling companion—met for the 
first time during the voyage from ’Frisco!” 

“What said he, then?” 

“I’m coming to that. Of course, the whole thing 
was a slip. Any fool could see that. He let it out 
accidentally, and he fairly cursed himself for his folly. 
He threw a few dozeri plates about to distract our at¬ 
tention, and so on. But I trapped him, Mac. You 
can’t throw dust in the eyes of Howard Beaumont. I 
waited until everybody had forgotten the incident—as 
a matter of fact, I think only one or two of us had 
heard Leturc’s remark—and then I deliberately asked 
him how it was that he chanced to be acquainted with 
the name of little Vanda’s rescuer.” 

MacWhirter chuckled, then: 

“But tell me, laddie, what exactly did the Frenchy 
say?” 

Beaumont frowned in momentary perplexity, then 
his lean face took on a deeper shade of tan, as: 

“I remember—I remember every word!” he cried 
excitedly. “He said, what was it? Ah—Wen How is 
too wily to play into his victim’s hands like that!” 
Those were the words. Note them—especially the ‘vic¬ 
tim’ section.” 

MacWhirter whistled, and Beaumont continued: 

“Now that name Yen How will convey nothing to 
you. But to me it possesses a special significance— 
you see, I happen to have heard of his Excellency. 
When I asked Leturc how it was that he knew Vanda’s 
knight-errant’s identity, he fenced. He said he was 


192 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


thinking of someone else. But my suspicions were 
aroused, and I went on to tell him that I had known my 
colleagues in the Secret Service days speak of a wealthy 
Mandarin, Yen How, who was known to the police both 
in Europe and America. This Mandarin happened, in 
those days, to be the Chief of a small and powerful 
Tong —or Secret Organization—which was reputed to 
have committed various strange and unusual crimes 
against society in the years before all Tongs came to 
an agreement to abide by our laws and endeavour to 
exercise an official control over their members. This 
Tong , known, I believe, as ‘ The Broken Joss-Stick 
TongJ only permitted its members to remain such for 
a short period of years. Further, they were each 
branded with the Sign of the Tong , and the penalty of 
revealing the secrets of the Society to any except fel¬ 
low-members was instant death!” 

“An uncoo gruesome tea-party!” commented the Scot 
dryly. 

“Distinctly so,” agreed the Administrator. “Now I 
found out, rather cleverly, I think, that Vanda’s rescuer 
and the Chinese of whom I had myself heard frequently 
were, actually, one and the same person. In other 
words, the man who drove Vanda home in his automo¬ 
bile, and apparently tried to make love to her on the 
journey, is—the Chief of the Broken Joss-Stick Tong I 
Yen How! I further discovered that Jacques Leturc 
is also a member—or, at least, is in some way connected 
with—the Tong; and he was sent out here expressly 
to capture the girl and convey her to Yen How.” 

“Return with her to New York?” 

“No—and here lies the Second Chapter of the mys¬ 
tery—Yen How is himself journeying to the South 
Seas—may even be lying off one of the islands now— 
and Leturc is simply to escape from Charteris with 
her and deliver her into his hands.” 


AT MACWHIRTER’S 


193 


“How will he escape ?” 

“God knows—but, believe me, he is cunning enough 
to find a way. We shall have to watch him night and 
day!” 

“And how did! ye discover all this information, 
laddie?” 

“I was coming to that. I staked a whole lot on the 
barest theories, but events have proved I was right— 
terribly right. I set Lee Wong to spy on the French¬ 
man, and Lee Wong told me that he had espied a 
vitriol-burnt Tong-sign upon Leturc’s chest once when 
he was stripped for a bath. So I painted the Sign of 
the Broken Joss-Stick Tong —with which I happened, 
fortunately, to be familiar—upon the chest of Lee 
Wong, coached him to bluff the Frenchman that he 
was an ex-member, and sent him to interview his fellow 
Tong-man!” 

MacWhirter chuckled audibly. 

“Lee Wong brought back the strange facts I have 
recounted to you a few moments ago. How Yen How 
coveted the white maiden, Yanda, with a lust so great 
that he was prepared to go to any length in order to 
gain possession of her: how he had set Leturc upon her 
trail like a bloodhound: and lastly, how he, Leturc, pro¬ 
posed to steal her away and hand her over to the vile 
hands of his Master. Lee Wong also found out how it 
was that a white man such as Leturc should have thus 
been elected to membership of a Chinese Tong, but we 
need not trouble ourselves with those details now. The 
immediate problem is just what action Leturc is going 
to take, and how best we are going to frustrate it.” 

“Ye have been to see Ra, I ken?” 

“Yes. Hence the attempt at murder. Ra, also, 
knows too much. He is a very definite menace to Le¬ 
turc. And, quite incidentally, do you know that there 
is radium-ore in the cavern of the All-Wise?” 


194 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


“I dinna care a great deal aboot the radium, laddie. 
The girl’s the problem. What exactly did Ra tell ye?” 

“Before I recount that,” said Beaumont, “I ought 
further to inform you that I am firmly convinced that 
the reason for Yen How’s trip to the South Seas is 
nothing more or less than a search for the very radium- 
mine Monte Kilgour to-night told us existed in the 
cavern. Leturc knows that is the motive, because he 
tried his level best to pour scorn on the idea of the ele¬ 
ment being existent in these seas. When Kilgour sug¬ 
gested it, he nearly had a fit. He confided to me that 
he thought I must be insane to entertain the idea. He 
is a fool, Mac, and not worthy to be entrusted with 
the errands of so accomplished a scoundrel as Yen 
How! 

“Now as to Ra. Briefly, he described what I took to 
be the murder of Elmer Kilgour by a green-eyed mon¬ 
ster obviously intended to be Monsieur Leturc himself. 
From what I could gather, some other person—some 
member of Kilgour’s crew—also tried his hand at the 
game, but only succeeded in stunning the wounded 
captain. Leturc, Ra informed us, without of course 
mentioning names, completed the dirty work! 

“Then, secondly, he described what I now believe to 
be a meeting between Leturc and Yen How in some 
cellar situated beneath the streets of a large city. This 
was followed by a eulogy concerning Yen How and his 
base intentions, and lastly a vignette of a ship—also, 
presumably, Yen How’s—setting sail for this island 
laden with Chinese and other interesting impedimenta. 
Then, as a Grand Finale, came the warning which in¬ 
duced Leturc to brandish arms and lose his head. . . . 
Perhaps the whole business is all balderdash, but I feel 
certain there is some appalling mystery overshadowing 
Vanda and Kilgour, and possibly, though I have really 
no definite reason for thinking so, even Pastor Hardie 


AT MACWHIRTER’S 


195 


himself. Sometimes, I conceive a mental picture, as it 
were, of this evil Chinese Mandarin squatting impas¬ 
sively within the centre of a gigantic web which—spider¬ 
like—he is subtly weaving to enmesh this young and 
beautiful girl and her lover even as, from what 
I gather, he has frequently enmeshed others equally 
as young and fair in the past. A Yellow Spider— 
unbelievably malevolent and odious, and watching . . . 
watching. . . .” 

He laughed, a shade of his old humour lending irony 
to his carelessly spoken words. MacWhirter halted in 
his endless pacing to and fro upon the grass-plot in 
front of the bungalow, and stared at Beaumont. 

“It was no’ balderdash,” he said slowly. “The mon 
Ra is no’ an ordinary human being, Mr. Beaumont. Ye 
mus’ no’ forget that. If we are to help the little leddy 
we must not scorn his sayings—he is a deal wiser than 
you or me, I ken.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of disputing it,” grinned Beau¬ 
mont. “But you talk two ways for Sunday, Mac, as 
they say in England. . . .” 

“Meanin’P” 

“You don’t always practice what you preach. I re¬ 
member you told me a long, long time ago that the All- 
Wise had prophesied a meeting, some day in the future, 
between you and your little boy—whom you consider 
dead. You scoffed at the very idea, you know. Now— 
you inform me I must accept as gospel everything Ra 
cares to tell me.” 

MacWhirter shook his head. 

“Ye dinna understand, laddie. I shall no* meet my 
little Andrew this side of the grave. Mayhap when I 
take the long, lone Trail. . . . But no’ here!” 

He paused, his eyes vacant with thought. Then: 

“I dinna see how Leturc can get away with Miss 
Vanda, in any case. Ye follow? We’re on an island, 


196 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


laddie, an’ to quit an island ye mun take tae the water! 
Hoo the devil he could escape without a human eye 
taking a keek at him, beats me!” 

“He could arrange for a ship to lie off Charteris and 
pick him up—the Rkoda, for instance.” 

“I would no’ trust the mon Ohlson overmuch-” 

“Nor would I; apparently they are old cronies.” 

MacWhirter’s eyebrows rose. 

“Hoots! Ye dinna say so!” 

“It’s a fact—unfortunately.” 

“Then we must watch Ohlson.” His forehead crin¬ 
kled, as, casting a glance over his shoulder at the 
gay-lit windowed fa£ade of his bungalow, MacWhirter 
said: “Poor wee girlie—an’ them all so happy in 
there. . . .” 

The pulse-beat of sentiment passed; the stern, lined 
face hardened into a granite figurehead of resolution; 
the bleak, tight lips drew together in an unflexing line: 
emotion was dead. With a sigh of satisfaction, Beau¬ 
mont commenced to retrace his steps towards the bun¬ 
galow: his determination to save Vanda from the invisi¬ 
ble threads the grim, dim-visaged Spider of Infamy that 
was Yen How was so subtly yet so remorselessly weav¬ 
ing about her body strengthened a hundredfold by the 
fact that he had definitely enlisted upon his side—and 
the side of the girl—the services of a man of such time- 
proven worth as Andrew MacWhirter. For MacWhir¬ 
ter, in the interests of justice alone, would cheerfully 
face hell and all its teeming hordes of demons. But 
when to the interest of justice alone was added the 
salient complex that Vanda was Lilian Hardie’s sister 
and that MacWhirter demanded nothing greater from 
life than to see his friend the Administrator wedded to 
Lilian, it will be appreciated that the brain-strength 
behind his arm was fortified until it became that of a 
veritable Galahad! 



AT MACWHIRTER’S 197 

As they reached the short flight of wooden stairs 
leading to the verandah, MacWhirter said: 

“Can ye find a pillow for ma head, laddie, if I come 
home with ye all to-night?” 

“Pillow? Good Lord, Mac, you could have a whole 
room to yourself! But—do you mean to say you’re 
coming with us-” 

“D’ye no’ want ma, then?” 

“Want you? Why, that’s just what I was going to 
suggest—that you should put up at my place till the— 
er—storm breaks: if it’s going to break, that is-” 

“It’ll break,” said MacWhirter positively, “an’ ye’ll 
want more than yourself to manage the ship, I’m 
thinking!” 

From the open door of the bungalow flowed the low, 
muted notes of Sidney Baynes’ Destiny —most hack¬ 
neyed, most haunting of all waltz-music of the latter- 
day epoch . . . played by MacWhirter’s aged gramo¬ 
phone, the sound-box of which suffered acutely from an 
abiding attack of tonsillitis. And Beaumont, stopping 
dead upon the verandah to listen, was conscious of a 
vague sense of chill . . . chill far more icy and pene¬ 
trating than the natural coolth of the approaching 
dawn, surging about him like the sullen flood of a 
Polar wave, or an eddy of wind blown from the moun¬ 
tains of eternal snow. 




XX 


THE WEB IN BEING 

By the wide-flung window of his small, meagrely-iur- 
nished study, his great bulk stretched upon two rattan 
chairs, a small pile of black-bound books and a disor¬ 
dered quire of manuscript paper at his side, reclined 
Pastor Hardie. 

Prom the open window which, giving upon the 
verandah, commanded a magnificently panoramic view 
of Charteris, the hot, sultry breath of late afternoon 
stole into the apartment, setting the dust-impregnated 
air a-tremble and stirring a sheet of paper here, a 
curtain there. 

Absolute silence lay like a mantle upon the island: 
even the deep-toned chanting of the reef was practically 
inaudible ... a mere whisper from the void of infinite 
space. These brooding, sound-dumb, vacuous days in 
the Pacific, when all is muted as though the world hung 
motionless in an exhausted retort, constitute a well- 
known natural phenomenon to the experienced traveller 
in the Southern hemisphere; too well-known, perhaps 
. . . for, just as in Britain, when a thunderstorm is 
about to break over the countryside, there falls that 
peculiar hush, that inexplicable cessation of the com¬ 
monplace sounds of life, so in the wide, boundless spaces 
of the ocean world there is a lulling, a suspense of 
activity preparatory to an elemental disturbance— 
whether it be merely a fusillade of Nature’s Maxim- 
guns and fireballs, or that spinning terror which is a 
cyclone—trailing death and destruction in its wake. 
In this particular case, however, the sullen silence of 
198 


THE WEB IN BEING 


199 


earth and sky was but God’s prelude to the storms and 
tempests which—sometimes—usher in the season of 
flood and rains. 

Yet Hardie, his blue eyes roving the exquisite vistas 
of his little kingdom, hardly seemed conscious of the 
portending inclemency of weather. The tiny, blurred 
dots moving hither and thither about the somnolent 
village, digging ditches, tacking down roof-felt, thatch¬ 
ing huts and warehouses in preparation for the annual 
deluge, made—it would seem—little or no impression 
upon his mentality. His pipe, clutched firmly in one 
hand, had burnt out, leaving a pile of disgorged ash 
upon his stained tropic clothing; his other hand toyed 
aimlessly with a crumpled envelope lying upon his knee. 
Apart from that futile, indeterminate movement of his 
fingers about the envelope, a stranger—by chance peer¬ 
ing into the room—would have deemed him asleep or, 
at least, daydreaming. . . . 

But behind those quietly roving eyes, that stern, set 
face, the brain of Robert Hardie spun itself dizzy with 
its driving tumult of mazed thought. As though it 
alone of all that physical entity which was himself func¬ 
tioned, and every other instrument and organ of his 
body had been lulled to a state of numbness and sub¬ 
jection. Meanwhile the blatant, aggressive clock upon 
the little, cheap wooden desk behind him hammered out 
the hours and half-hours with a sublime indifference 
towards its own importunity. Foolish, foolish little 
clock. ... 

It is impossible to say how long the dormant physi¬ 
cal senses of Pastor Hardie would have permitted him 
to sit on in the silence of those passing hours whose 
going was noted alone by the chinging hammer of the 
clock, had not his reverie been rudely interrupted—just 
after the stroke of six—by a loud tattoo upon the 
panels of the study door. 


200 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


With a violent jerk, the silver-haired figure by the 
window sat upright—the chair he had employed as a 
footstool subsiding, with a sharp thud, backwards upon 
the floor. 

“Yes? Who is there? What do you want?” 

There was a second’s pause; then: 

“Father—open the door, please. It’s I—Vanda. I 
want to speak to you!” 

A sharp note of eagerness, of suppressed excitement 
in the girl’s voice brought the vagrant brain of the man 
by the window into an active comprehension of material 
things: the sound of a human voice, the thrill of stifled 
human laughter. With a curiously dog-like movement 
of his bowed shoulders, he seemed literally to shake him¬ 
self free of the lethargy of prolonged and feverish 
thought which had for some three hours enveloped him. 
Crossing to the door, he unlocked it and flung it open; 
as: 

“Come in,” he cried. 

In his younger days—those far-off distant days 
when, a brown lawless boy, he had struggled to make a 
living for himself and his aged mother as a seaman on 
almost every kind of craft at that time sailing the Pa¬ 
cific—from a blackened, primitive tramp smudging the 
skyline with sooty fingers of smoke and polluting the 
atmosphere for a full square mile about her blunt bows, 
to a dashing privateer from the furthest South—Rob¬ 
ert Hardie might, had the roulette-wheel of his destiny 
spun otherwise than it eventually did, have won fame 
and fortune on the boards. For he was a born actor. 
But he chose the sea, and like all who follow the call of 
the sea on the heaving bosom of the deep he remained— 
until, that is, God crept unawares through the back¬ 
door of his heart and he became a missionary, and per¬ 
mitted his mother to spend her savings in sending him 
to College. 


THE WEB IN BEING 


201 


But this old ability to act, to play a part, to don a 
mask never forsook him throughout the long years of 
what he sometimes jocularly termed his ‘civilized life.’ 
So it was then on this particular evening when Vanda 
and Kilgour, wholly unannounced, burst in upon him 
with the velocity of a couple of miniature tornadoes, 
that despite the seething turmoil of his mind he was able 
to turn to them a kindly smile of welcome. 

“Did we frighten you?” laughed the girl, her vivid 
young face upraised to kiss him. “We—we have come 
on rather an important mission; haven’t we, Monte?” 

The Pastor, stooping to receive her caress, suddenly 
straightened himself; one arm still about her shoulder. 

“Rather,” agreed Kilgour with great heartiness. “In 
fact, I think one might say a momentous mission. Par¬ 
don the alliteration, but the adjective is good!” 

“In that case,” said Hardie quietly, “you had better 
both sit down and tell me all about it.” 

He looked at his daughter, and for the first time no¬ 
ticed that, though her eyes were very bright and her 
lips laughing, her cheeks were unusually pale, and, on 
the instant, he became acutely aware of a constriction 
about his throat. . . . 

“Cigarette?” he said, unsteadily, to Kilgour. 

“Thanks. By the way, Pastor, Mrs. Hardie says 
you have been locked in here all afternoon. What have 
you been doing? Composing sermons?” 

“Studying—just studying,” responded Hardie 
wearily. “My household understand that when I lock 
my study door I am not to be disturbed.” 

“So I was told,” smiled Kilgour. “And had it not 
been a matter of appalling urgency we should not have 
thus dared to interrupt you. But Vanda.——” he 
darted a swift, encouraging glance at the girl—“was 
confident that when you had heard what we have to say 
you would grant us a free pardon. To be brief: I am 



202 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


thinking of returning to America in a week or so, and 
it is my wish—our wish: Vanda’s and my own—that she 
may return with me —as my wife. 9 * 

A deathly silence, pregnant with untold issues, and 
broken only by the hollow ticking of the clock and the 
tense inhalation of Vanda’s breath, followed the 
younger man’s quiet pronouncement. The girl, her 
face almost startling by reason of its extreme pallor, 
half turned towards her lover. Motionless, Kilgour 
stared at the Pastor. 

Hardie, vaguely conscious of his scrutiny, averted his 
eyes . . . and in that moment Monte Kilgour became 
aware of a great access of anger shaking the founda¬ 
tions of his self-control. 

“Well?” he snapped. “Have you anything to say— 
or not?” 

Dazedly, Hardie looked at the speaker; then: 

“I—I am sorry ...” he said, “but-” 

“Yes?” 

Kilgour, vividly conscious that Vanda had risen from 
her chair, was swaying on her feet, took a step forward. 

“Yes?” he repeated. 

Hardie quailed before that gaunt, lean figure whose 
grey eyes, hard as granite, were boring him through 
and through like javelins. . . . 

“I am sorry, Monte,” he faltered, “but what you ask 
is —impossible ” 

“Father!”—the cry escaped from Vanda’s lips like 
the voice of a stricken animal. 

Kilgour stood like a man of stone. 

“Impossible? Might I ask why?” she heard his voice 
rasp. 

Hardie raised a hand to his forehead. 

“I—I-” 

Again Kilgour advanced towards him, and in the 
pale, rather delicate face of his daughter’s lover, 




THE WEB IN BEING 


203 


Hardie perceived the indomitable will that had—he 
supposed—won for this young man fame and fortune 
while he was yet—in the eyes of the world—little more 
than an overgrown boy. 

“You knew we were in love with one another! You 
have known that ever since the night-” 

“Yes, yes,” interrupted the Pastor. “Yes, I knew 
that; have known-” 

“Then if you never intended that we should marry” 
—the speaker laughed bitterly—“why did you permit 
us to be—lovers?” 

“I thought—I did not know—you see, circumstances 
have changed-” 

“You mean-” 

A sudden line of determination lengthened the grim 
set of the Pastor’s lips. For the first time during this 
strange, one-sided conversation, he realized that he was 
giving the entire reins of the situation into the hands of 
a man of whom he was old enough to be the father. 

“I mean that I shall not give my consent to your 
marriage with my daughter,” he said quietly. 

For a moment two pairs of eyes—blue and grey— 
glared defiance at each other across the rattan chairs. 
Then: 

“We shall be married without your consent. I was a 
fool—a weak fool—to ask for it!” 

The scorn of the hard young voice: the withering 
scorn of youth which knows old-age to be utterly and 
wholly in the wrong, galvanized Hardie into action. 

“You—dare!” he said, hoarsely. 

Kilgour folded his arms. 

“Vanda loves me—as / love her. I am willing—I am 
anxious—to devote the rest of my life towards making 
her happy . . . her happiness, indeed, is all I have 
to live for now. I intend to marry her.” 

He became aware that a soft, small hand had slipped 






204 THE FOREST OF FEAR 

between the white sleeve of his coat and his body. It 
was Vanda. 

“Father 55 —her eyes were suffused with tears, her red 
lips quivered pftifully in their effort to frame the words. 

“Father—I-thought you knew I wanted to marry 

Monte. We—he—I’ve loved him ever since—ever since 
I met him in New York. 55 

For the second time during the swift progress of that 
odd, emotional combat of human souls, the Pastor be¬ 
came aware of a constriction, a muscular tightening, as 
it were, about his throat. 

“My dear—” his voice was very gentle now; remorse¬ 
ful it seemed to Kilgour, still fighting the demons who 
sought to cut the last frail threads of his self-control in 
pieces. “My dear-—I am sorry; believe me, I have 
nothing—nothing whatever—except the kindliest feel¬ 
ings towards Monte. In fact”—his eyes met Kilgour’s 
squarely for the merest fraction of a second—“I think 
I may say that I have conceived quite an affection for 
him. But the thing you ask can never be. . . . I am 
sorry. . . .” 

Shuddering, the girl leant against the cheap wooden 
desk which had occupied the little room, standing in the 
same identical spot, over the same identical hole in the 
carpet, ever since she could remember. 

“Then,” she said voicelessly, so that they could 
scarcely catch the words as they fell from her lips, “then 
—it will have to be as Monte says ... we shall marry 
without your consent. . . 

Suddenly she stretched out her bare, rounded arms 
to him, her head flung back, her scarlet lips showing like 
a sword-wound against the dead whiteness of her face. 

“Dad—Dad—why do you . . . say this? What 
have we done? Why do you forbid us to—to—love one 
another?” 



THE WEB IN BEING 


205 


And Hardie, smitten by the agony of her eyes, 
wavered, prevaricated. . . . 

“I do not forbid you to love one another,” he said. 

As the words fell upon the sullen silence of that early 
evening hour, Kilgour roused himself to meet the situa¬ 
tion once again. 

“You do not forbid us to love one another? And yet 
you refuse to allow us to marry? Surely, surely you 
know what that must mean . . . the position would be 
impossible, unbearable. What are you talking about?” 

“I don’t know . . . give me time to think. Time! 
Time!” 

“But-” expostulated the bewildered novelist. 

“You don’t understand: you cannot understand. 
Leave me—both of you—I—will see you again. . . .” 

“When?” Bewilderment still shook Kilgour’s voice, a 
bewilderment, an amazement so profound that, dimly at 
first, yet growing imperceptibly until it became a 
definite conviction ousting anger and leaving in anger’s 
stead only a dull, half-comprehending pity, he realized 
that he and Vanda—all three of them, in fact—were 
face to face with a problem the solution of which only 
time could accomplish. Of one thing, at least, he was 
certain—suddenly and acutely certain: the Pastor’s re¬ 
fusal to give consent to their marriage was not dictated 
by any personal aversion or distaste, any parental dis¬ 
approval, of his would-be son-in-law, but rather owed 
its origin in a dark, mysterious way which he, Kilgour, 
could never hope to fathom, to that same sinister influ¬ 
ence, that same enigmatic Something which—culminat¬ 
ing but a few short nights ago in the amazing 
denouement which took place in the cavern of Ra— 
had conspired to make their recent life on Charteris a 
small Hell of intangible yet terrifying possibilities: 
which, almost like some impending psychical calamity, 
filled every one of them, from Beaumont downwards, 



206 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


with a haunting sense of fear that was, at least in many 
of its aspects, the fear of the mortal for the unmortal: 
the natural for the supernatural. A fear, a foreboding, 
which lent one the discomforting impression that one 
was fighting—fighting against terrific odds—an enemy 
in the dark: an enemy one could not see, yet which was 
itself gifted with vast powers of vision. . . . 

Kilgour put his arm about Vanda’s slender shoulders. 

“Come, sweetheart-” 

She clung to him mazedly. 

“But-” 

She glanced at her father. Chin sunk upon his broad, 
white collar, he was gazing vacantly—stupidly—out of 
the window: over the verandah rail. Instinctively she 
knew that upon the retina of those vacant blue eyes no 
picture, no imprint of the things beyond the rail was 
made. As in a dream, she felt the pressure of Kilgour’s 
arm about her body . . . strengthening her, support¬ 
ing her, leading her tenderly away . . . away from 
that drab, hollow chamber; away from the clamour of 
that blatant, jeering clock; away from the presence of 
that motionless figure standing by the window: that mo¬ 
tionless figure which was her father. . . . Her father? 
. . . Still in a dream she heard the muffled shutting of 
a door. . . . 

In the passage leading from the study to the purely 
domestic quarters of the parsonage stood Beaumont. 

“ Well?” he said. 

Kilgour shook his head. 

“It’s no use ... he won’t hear of it. Sit down, 
Vanda—there’s a stool in the corner yonder.” 

“We can’t stay here,” said Vanda flatly. “We can’t 
stay here-” 

Beaumont looked from one to the other. Then: 






THE WEB IN BEING 207 

“Come outside,” he muttered. “The fresh air’ll do 
you good, kid.” 

They followed him through the living-room and out 
into the compound. Beaumont lit a cigarette, mechani¬ 
cally passing his case to Kilgour. 

“Did you lie to him?” he asked curtly. “Did you tell 
him you were thinking of leaving Charteris—as I in¬ 
structed you?” 

Mechanically, Kilgour replied: 

“I did.” 

“What did he say?” 

“He said he was very sorry, but-•” 

“But,” supplemented Vanda still so tonelessly that 
the Administrator darted a swift, nervous glance into 
her beautiful face, “but it was impossible.” 

“Why?”—the question, so peremptory, was like a 
rifle-shot. 

Kilgour bit fiercely upon the frayed end of his 
cigarette. 

“At first, I thought he must have found out about 
something which happened during the voyage from 
Suva. You know, Beaumont, one evening, when the 
Apia boat lay off* a little island to deliver the mails, 
Vanda and I did a rather indiscreet thing. We went 
ashore and spent nearly half the night bathing, return¬ 
ing on board just after dawn. Nothing in itself, of 
course, but the island was lonely, with only a handful 
of inhabitants, and you know what the world is . . . 
how the blight of scandal touches one when one is least 
aware. . . . 

“And you must remember that for some unearthly 
reason we ‘artistic’ people are always supposed to be of 
looser moral character than other fellows. That is a 
popular fallacy, though I admit, frankly, that there’s 
some justification for the opinion; but in nine cases out 
of ten it is a damning indictment made by people whose 



208 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 

hobby—as a class—consists in searching for the cor¬ 
rupt where there is no corruption . . . over-sexed 
women, for instance, who if they did not prefer to con¬ 
sider themselves intensely righteous and moral would 
be entirely wanton and immoral; and men who, lacking 
the courage to do wrong openly, profess profound re¬ 
spectability and cloak gross sensuality beneath a veneer 
of impeccable professionalism and the adoption of 
highbrow codes of social etiquette—consisting, as far 
as I have been able to ascertain, of things which are 
‘done/ and things which are ‘not done/ It follows that 
all-night bathing in a deserted South Sea Island lagoon 
is one of those things which, emphatically, are not done 
—especially when your aquatic companion happens to 
be a remarkably attractive girl of twenty who is not 
the possessor of a bathing parew , to say nothing of 
that odious social necessity, a chaperone! 

“So, when Hardie refused to give us a hearing, I 
thought it possible that Leturc, his intense respecta¬ 
bility profoundly shaken by our somewhat unconven¬ 
tional escapade, had deemed it his duty to inform the 
Pastor that I was a bold, bad degenerate: little better 
than a Coney roue on Saturday night. 

“However, I think I was mistaken. After informing 
me that he had quite an affection for me, he emphasized 
the fact that circumstances had altered the case—‘cir¬ 
cumstances had arisen,’ I think he said—and left it at 
that. Yes, he contented himself with the mention of 
these mysterious ‘circumstances.’ Didn’t he, Vanda?” 

“Ah! The deuce he did!” 

Beaumont sprang to his feet, as though to make his 
way back to the house. Then, pausing irresolutely: 

“Look here,” he said. “Leave this affair to me—I’m 
going to go and have it out with him right now. See ?” 

Vanda smiled listlessly. 


THE WEB IN BEING 209 

“It’s no use, Howard. You don’t understand father. 
When he’s once made up his mind-” 

Beaumont cut her short. 

“My dear child, have patience. Bluff has apparently 

failed, but-” he laid a hand on her shoulder—“trust 

me, Vanda; I think I do understand the situation. . . . 
We’ll see what the Truth can do!” 

“Truth?” 

He smiled enigmatically, as: 

“Leave it to me,” he repeated. 

Once again he turned on his heel, then, struck by a 
sudden thought: 

“For the last time—it’s going over old ground, I 
know—you two love each other? You would be willing, 
are willing, to-” 

“Yes,” said Vanda, before he could complete the 
question. “Yes—we are willing to face anything if— 
if-” 

Beaumont was gone. 

“Good fellow—Beaumont,” said Kilgour. 

The Pastor was lighting the small, shaded lamp on 
his desk when, without pausing for the formality of a 
knock, Beaumont burst into his study. 

“What’s the meaning of this?” demanded Beaumont; 
and kicked the door to with his heel. 

Hardie, his face indistinct with shadow, looked up. 

“I beg your pardon-” 

“Cut that!” retorted Beaumont, and advanced into 
the room; a massive white-clad figure as tall as the 
Pastor himself, and extraordinarily dominant. 

Hardie fiddled with a sheet of foolscap—the manu¬ 
script of a sermon he realized later. 

“Really-” he began ; but the Administrator si¬ 

lenced him with a gesture. 








210 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


“Sit down and light your pipe. I want to talk to 
you." 

“I am honoured . . murmured Hardie, and be¬ 
came aware that Beaumont had circumnavigated the 
table and was towering at his side. 

“What the devil,” said Beaumont’s voice in his ear, 
“do you want to break your daughter’s heart for, you 
fool?” 

“Beaumont!” 

“I repeat,” went on Beaumont coldly, “what the devil 
do you want to break Vanda’s heart for, you fool?” 

In the warm glow of the lamp, the Administrator saw 
his companion flinch. 

“Why,” he continued, following up his advantage, 
“have you refused to allow her to marry Kilgour?” 

Hardie summoned a laugh. 

“Really, Beaumont, you take too much upon your¬ 
self. May I ask what the question of my daughter’s 
marriage has to do with you?" 

“Simply this: I’m not going to stand by and see you 
make shipwreck of her life.” 

“And how do you know that I propose to ‘make ship¬ 
wreck of her life’?” 

“Ah!” Something very like a sneer broke from 
Beaumont’s tight lips. “Ah! Then you do consider 
Leturc a suitable mate for her?” 

It was a bow at a venture, but the arrow fled true to 
its mark: terribly true. 

“Good God! You—you-” 

Beaumont relaxed against the desk, just as Vanda 
herself had done a brief half-hour before. 

“Oh, yes, I know,” he said. “I know, Hardie.” 

The Pastor stumbled awkwardly to his wickerwork 
armchair. The Administrator, a grim smile of triumph 
on his lips, watched him . . . then: 



THE WEB IN BEING 


211 


“You coward,” he said, almost compassionately. 
“You pitiful, weak coward. . . .” 

Still watching, he lit a cigarette. Outside, the soft 
Pacific sky darkened to night, as day—pale phantom 
sister—vanished over the horizon on wings still trailed 
with fire. 

“Hardie,” he said at length, “I want you to listen 
to me; there are one or two things I should like to 
explain. May I?” 

A faint murmur of assent came from the huddled 
figure in the chair. Beaumont levered himself to the 
desk-top; then: 

“In the first place, let me tell you that your daugh¬ 
ters— both of them —are too fine, too splendid to be 
sacrificed to save any man’s honour—even their 
father’s. Their bodies—their souls —are not to be 
bartered like cattle in order that the Menace of the 
past may for ever hide its ugly head. Vanda cannot— 
shall not —be deliberately sold into most awful slavery 
as the price of Leturc’s silence . . . the silence of a 
blackguard and a beast! Surely even you must under¬ 
stand that?” 

“Most awful slavery?” repeated the Pastor’s voice— 
the voice of the gored dumb creature lashed to inco¬ 
herent mouthing by the torturer’s whip. 

“Yes,” the Administrator’s anger softened at the 
sound of that piteous, gasping query. “Surely, it would 
be that? You know who and what this man is—vilest 
agent—no more—of one whom I should personally 
imagine to be little less than a cunning, merciless fiend: 
a parasite of Society: a yellow-skinned leper! A mere 
lustful, avaricious scoundrel!” 

“I—do not understand.” 

Beaumont paused, startled, his flow of rhetoric for 
the moment checked. 

“You do not understand?” 


212 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


“Go on—go on.” 

Beaumont shrugged his shoulders. “I may be un¬ 
necessarily sweeping, but surely, surely you know that 
Leturc has pursued Vanda across the Pacific: has fol¬ 
lowed her from San Francisco, at the instigation of an 
Oriental devil whose lustful eyes, like those of some 
lean, hungry spider, covet that dear body which is 
yours—and mine, and Kilgour’s—d;o protect? Surely 
you know that? 

“Surely you know that Leturc—whatever dealings 
you may have had with him in the past—is now a mem¬ 
ber of the Broken Joss-Stick Tong: one of the smallest 
but most influential secret-service organizations in 
modern China ? A Tong ruled and controlled by one of 
the astutest Oriental brains known to Western civiliza¬ 
tion. Surely you know that Leturc’s proposal of mar¬ 
riage is but part of a dastardly plot to enable him to 
convey little Vanda to the awful Harems of Yen How— 
the Mandarin Tong- man who played the part of gallant 
to an innocent girl whom he perceived to be in rather 
an awkward predicament? And it may further astonish 
you if I inform you that Yen How, for reasons not yet 
entirely apparent, is even now bound for Charteris in 
his own private vessel. . . .” 

“Stop!” cried Hardie. “Oh, God, stop him!—stop!” 

Beaumont, gratified beyond measure with his powers 
of oratory, rose. 

66 Did you know all this, Pastor?” he queried. 

Hardie raised a clenched hand as though to strike 
the grinning lips dumb. 

“Prove this!” he cried. “I command you to prove 
it! Quick! Lest—lest—I-” 

“Oh, no, you won’t kill me,” said Beaumont. “I shall 
yet live to hear your fervent ‘well done.’ Now, about 

proof-” He fumbled in his pocket. “I have here a 

letter—curt, but eminently satisfactory—written to me 



THE WEB IN BEING 


213 


by Lilian, and delivered at my house by Mauki early 
this afternoon-” 

He stopped speaking abruptly, as, snatching the 
sheet of paper—even in that paralysing instant the 
Pastor recognized it as being a piece of his own special 
ruled foolscap—Hardie commenced to read the 
scrawled message thereon aloud: 

“Dear Howard (the message ran), 

“I think I ought to inform you that I have dis¬ 
covered the reason for M. Leturc’s visit to Charteris. 
The Frenchman is not here sight-seeing, as he would 
have us believe, but has come out to the Islands for the 
direct purpose of kidnapping Vanda—my sister. If no 
more convenient method suggests itself to him, he pro¬ 
poses to ask my father for her hand in marriage. He 
claims that he possesses means by which he can compel 
my father to consent to this absurd request. Those 
means are, in some way, connected with—a murder. 
Perhaps you will be able to fill in the blanks—I know 
you have your suspicions ; though, if you cared to ques¬ 
tion the Frenchman closely, I think it possible that the 
identity of the man who slew Elmer Kilgour might come 
to light. 

“Yours, 

“Lilian. 

“P.S.—I obtained my information by permitting M. 
Leturc to make love to me in the Forest of Ra—will you 
forgive me?” 

Like a man turned suddenly to a carven statue, an 
image of marble or stone, Hardie stared fixedly at the 
Administrator’s set face—a face from which all ele¬ 
ment of humour had been wiped miraculously away, as 
by a sponge. Then, abruptly, he handed back the 
missive. 



214 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


“Satisfied?” came Beaumont’s voice out of infinite 
distance. 

And from the outposts of an even greater distance, 
as it seemed, the Pastor’s voice drifted back: 

“Save her, Beaumont. ... For her mother’s sake, 
save her. ...” 

“The Rhoda ,” returned Beaumont, “is, I am in¬ 
formed, lying off Charteris now. WhyV? 

A low moan of anguish escaped the elder man’s lips. 

“I shall post a guard outside Leturc’s room to¬ 
night,” continued the American. “To-morrow is the 
night of the Carnival—and at dawn on the day after I 
am told the Rhoda returns South to Apia. . . . Ohl- 
son, apparently, is in a hurry. . . .” 

“Beaumont,” the voice which seemed to speak down 
the very Corridor of Ages came faintly again to the 
Administrator’s ears: “Beaumont, in God’s name, do 
what you can. . . .” 

“I will,” retorted Beaumont, and: “Who murdered 
Elmer Kilgour, Hardie?” he added softly. 


XXI 


CARNIVAL 

The arrival of the Rhoda at Charteris, fully a week 
before she was officially due with Mails from Apia, had 
stirred to life in the hearts of at least three individuals 
emotions of a widely different nature. To Beaumont, 
the sight of her green port light and her saluting-rocket 
fired—like a brilliant orange meteor—into the purple 
darkness of the heavens a brief hour or two after his 
epoch-making conversation with Pastor Hardie sent a 
cold shiver of apprehension down the spine. To the 
Frenchman, Leturc, the sight of her dark hull limned on 
the skyline, as a blur of intense shadow, brought an 
amazing accession of spiritual well-being, and physical 
self-confidence: which—aided and abetted by two dimin¬ 
utive packets of white, flaky powder procured from 
the interior of the pedestal of his little green-eyed 
Buddha—contrived to make him a most boisterous and 
lewdly entertaining after-dinner companion to the 
nerve-wracked Beaumont, the stolid MacWhirter—who 
had now taken up his residence at the formers bunga¬ 
low in accordance with their prearranged plan—and the 
soul-sick, white-faced, yet immaculate Kilgour. While 
to the store-keeper, Lepmann, and his bewitching half- 
caste daughter, Doris, it brought—in the shape of a 
real, out-to-win, pioneering automobile—a secured so¬ 
cial position throughout the rest of their mortal lives, 
and possibilities of affluence till late undreamed of! 

This motor-car was an event: more than an event— 
the commencement of an astounding era of mechanical 
supremacy: only made possible by the initiative and 
enterprise of the ‘cutest island trader since old Mac- 
215 


216 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


Whirter 5 ; to wit, the progenitor of Doris himself. This 
automobile had been on order for months: Lepmann 
having signed a preliminary Agent’s contract during 
his last visit to Apia, where was situated, in a corru¬ 
gated iron shed of imposing dimensions, the headquar¬ 
ters of the Manufacturer’s District Distributor—a 
stout, choleric personage rising some fifty summers who 
had in his younger and more palmy days—before, that 
is to say, an increasing appreciation of the root princi¬ 
ples of the philosophy of Omar had debilitated his 
dollar-grabbing capacity by a full seventy per cent.— 
foster-fathered the Marvel Big Six during all stages of 
its manufacture, from the initial chassis-assembling in 
the vast Pittsburg shops to the final mile-a-minut^ 
scurry round the testing-track. 

Lepmann, then, although at the time of writing his 
car had only been uncrated some forty minutes, was the 
pioneer —the Pioneer —of automobilism in Charteris. 
What more natural, therefore, than that Beaumont, his 
scarcely-tasted dinner completed, accompanied by the 
hilarious Leturc and Kilgour, should stroll down 
through the tender, firefly-lit softnesses of evening to 
the long low store on the quayside which, they per¬ 
ceived as they approached, now bore the new and addi¬ 
tional display board: 


AUTOMOBILE AGENT. 


ALL SPARES AND REPAIRS 

FOR 

MARVEL “SIX” AUTOS. 


—in order to offer his congratulations to the newly- 
appointed advocate of twentieth-century scientific 





CARNIVAL 217 

achievement: as evinced in the latest Marvel Big Six 
internal-combustion engine? 

Arriving at the Lepmann Wharf, they found its 
wooden planking thronged with people—pushing, jos¬ 
tling, swaying, gesticulating—grouped, sardine-like, 
about a metal crate from which, sardine-like, they 
might just have been disgorged. Half out of the crate, 
its sleek black bonnet resembling more than anything 
else the wet, shining body of a shark, they caught a 
glimpse of Marvel Big Six herself. 

Forcing his way through the babbling Polynesians 
who, like children presented with a toy they do not 
understand, were watching Lepmann and his satellites 
(among whom, Kilgour’s questing eyes detected Ohlson, 
the Swede) complete the process of assembling, Beau¬ 
mont succeeded in attracting the attention of Doris— 
busied, beside her father, with the cumbersome, hickory 
wheels of the auto. 

“Hello!” she gasped, seizing his arm possessively. “I 
hoped you’d come 1 Isn’t he lovely!” 

Beaumont, hazily gathering that the observation re¬ 
ferred to Marvel Big Six and not to any newly-acquired 
masculine charmer, nodded. 

“Superb. But one should always refer to an auto¬ 
mobile as ‘she.’ 99 

“Oh, I didn’t know. But it’s ever so much nicer, isn’t 
it? Have you seen father?” 

“I caught a glimpse of a mouthing and dishevelled 
figure-” She gurgled happily. 

“You are silly! What’s the matter?—you look 
cross.” 

“Do I? Now you are being ‘silly.’ Tell me, how on 
earth did you get that—that pantechnicon”—pointing 
to the crate—“across?” 

“Oh, he had a raft made. Such a big one. I went on 
it. Wasn’t I brave?” 



218 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


Beaumont looked down into her alluring face: at her 
laughing, crimson lips. 

“Amazingly so! Now, tell Mr. Ohlson I want to 
speak to him. Hurry—and you shall walk home with 
me!” 

The Captain of the Rhoda, receiving her glibly- 
delivered announcement with an evident lack of enthusi¬ 
asm, lounged, hands in pockets, across the clear stretch 
of wharf about the auto and its crate. 

“I haf come back, you see, Beaumont,” he began 
insolently. 

“Apparently. What’s the explanation?” 

Ohlson spread vague, moist hands. 

“O, nod’hing much. I vas at a loose endt as you say; 
dat vas all!” 

“I see. And you leave—when? To-morrow?” 

“Not to-morrow. To-morrow night—perhaps; or 
dawn on the day after dat ... it dependt on the tide, 
Mr. Beaumont. It dependt on the tide, you 
understandt?” 

He lounged away, a shade less insolent—for he feared 
Beaumont—feared and hated him: for reasons best 
known to himself. A little later, the Administrator 
chanced upon him sprawling beneath a magnolia tree, 
deep in conversation with Leturc. So engrossed were 
they, that they did not so much as glance up when 
Beaumont and Kilgour, their shadows enormously ex¬ 
aggerated in the glare of the lamps and torches ranged 
about the quay, strolled past. Beaumont’s mouth 
hardened, and: 

“To-morrow—to-morrow night will mark our pis 
aUer and—the time to strike, Monte. Pray Heaven, 
we may be ready for them!” he whispered . . . his 
words almost drowned by a roar of laughter, so loud 
that—all thoughts of the Frenchman and his sinister 
companion driven momentarily from their minds—they 


CARNIVAL 


219 


rushed pell-mell through the sentient wall of sightseers 
to where, a gibbering mound of heat and blasphemy, 
Lepmann—endeavouring to crank his Marvel Big Six — 
had at length fallen prostrate as the result of a par¬ 
ticularly violent and unpremeditated backfire which, 
twirling the detachable crank from its socket, had 
caused him, as he later expressed it over a consoling 
cocktail, to “lose his balance the most damnablyi” 

* *■ * * * 

There prevails, on some of the larger islands in the 
Southern Hemisphere, or rather those particular por¬ 
tions of the Southern Hemisphere known as Melanesia 
and Polynesia, an old-established custom of heralding- 
in the period of The Rains with feasting and dancing 
and merriment; a custom similar to but infinitely more 
elaborate than the European practice of, say, hailing 
the advent of each New Year with Watch Night Serv¬ 
ices, house parties, and other such celebrations and 
demonstrations. 

Since his appointment as Administrator, Beaumont 
had faithfully upheld the tradition established by his 
predecessors and the people of Charteris. Every year, 
towards the close of the ‘dry’ season—when the sky 
grew heavy and swollen with moisture and storms rose 
swiftly on the horizon and swept inland with ever- 
increasing venom and velocity—he permitted one day 
and one night to be devoted solely to revelry and mas¬ 
querade: to feasting and ceremonial, pagan and Chris¬ 
tian. A day for the indulgence of all forms of sport 
and exercise—aquatic contests, canoe races, bow-and- 
arrow target practice, wrestling and jumping and run¬ 
ning—and a night for music and singing, feasting and 
laughter and love. . . . While the white population 
contented themselves with dancing to the wheezy notes 
of somebody’s gramophone, or the blatantly aggressive 
hammering and banging of a hastily conceived orchestra 


220 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


organized and directed by one or other of their num¬ 
ber who happened to have a 'penchant towards ham¬ 
mering and banging. . . . They were a merry crew: 
indescribably youthful in their appreciation of the 
primitive and the third best: amazingly self-satisfied 
and self-congratulatory: astonishingly immune from 
the dire effects of much wine-bibbing, and appallingly 
undisciplined and hilarious! To the tenderfoot, a 
South Sea Carnival night is a revelation. . . . 

You can picture the scene for yourself: vague, 
shadowy groves aglow with the multi-colours of in¬ 
numerable little paper lanterns. The loud, rhythmic 
pulsing of skin drums, the whimper of ukuleles and a 
hundred other stringed instruments—a few of native 
construction; but, for the most part, truculently Amer¬ 
ican—the wail of an odd and solitary flute, the thrilling 
of an old, disused violin or two . . . and over all the 
tremulous, purple dusk, shot, curtain-like, with the 
jewel-gleam of the silent, spinning fireflies. . . . The 
white people—American, Australian, European, and 
those nondescript sweepings one finds forgathered in 
this Paradise from the ends of the earth—moving 
hither and thither, rubber-soled and conspicuous in 
their duck tropic clothing, beneath the lanterns. The 
dusky, half-naked natives in their coloured pareus and 
Mother Hubbards ... all blend together to make the 
scene, once witnessed, an imperishable memory—for 
there is nothing, nowhere, quite like it on all God’s big, 
round world! 

Before she had been uncrated an hour or so, and the 
final assembling of her wheels, fenders, lamps and ex¬ 
traneous accessories properly completed, Marvel Big 
Six —a rude wooden seat lashed temporarily to her lean 
frame—was resolutely hauling the foundations of a 
portable wooden dancing-floor from Lepmann’s ware¬ 
house to the small village square, which was to form 


CARNIVAL 


221 


the stage, as it were, of the next day’s feast and carni¬ 
val. All through the night, until Dawn rose like a 
slumbrous goddess from the sea in garments of rose 
and pearl, the auto droned her way to and fro along 
the terrific apology for a road which led from the 
waterside to the village; and .Lepmann, moist but tri¬ 
umphant, sat at the large mahogany wheel and won¬ 
dered when to Heaven his first spring would go! But 
nothing more alarming than a ripped outer cover oc¬ 
curred to shake the intrepid courage of this pioneer, 
though the sound of the explosion reached the listening 
ears of Lee Wong squatting, rifle in hand, upon the 
mat outside Leturc’s bedroom door. 

By dawn, then, all was in readiness for the day’s cere¬ 
monial. Beaumont, rising, as was his wont, a full hour 
before the rest of his household, strolled up to view the 
preparations and congratulate Lepmann and his little 
band of satellites upon the success of their efforts. 
From the lower branches of the trees, native girls had 
strung wires, elaborately crossed and interwoven, from 
which were to be suspended the paper lanterns. The 
interior of the Mission House had been cleared of its 
forms and pews, and collapsible tables arranged in 
readiness for the primitive Dinner with which the Ad¬ 
ministrator regaled his friends and colleagues prior to 
the commencement of the carnival. 

“And the car?” queried Beaumont, accepting one of 
the Trader’s big cheroots with dubious care. “I hear 
she has rendered yeoman service.” 

Lepmann grinned. 

“Not a hitch, Beaumont—not a hitch! I burst a 
tyre, but”—he shrugged—“what could one expect?” 

“We shall shortly have to organize a Street Improve¬ 
ment Committee.” 

“I shall send the Marvel Corporation a photograph 


222 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


of our roads,” laughed Lepmann. “Then my name—as 
a pioneer—will be in all the papers!” 

“Better make Kilgour your publicity man—he knows 
all there is to know about the Press, I believe.” 

Their mirth at the mutual joke having subsided, Lep¬ 
mann hauled Beaumont to his house for breakfast— 
greatly to the delight of Doris and her fat native 
mother, who, vulgar in a loose and threadbare tappa 
Mother Hubbard, proffered him a greasy brown hand 
and dusted a chair for him. 

Kilgour brushed his lips tenderly across the fair head 
resting against his shoulder. 

“Tired, little one? You’ve been dancing all evening. 
Isn’t it time we went home?” 

Yanda stirred slightly in his arms. 

“Pm not tired, Monte—only happy. Do let us stay 
a little longer.” 

“Well”—Kilgour spoke doubtfully—“if we do, I 
must certainly get you something more to eat. You 
hardly touched your dinner, you know.” 

She smiled faintly, drawing still closer against him. 

“I know. I think it must have been excitement and— 
and—you know?” She turned her head and looked at 
him. “Monte, don’t you think Beaumont and—every¬ 
body—is getting absurdly panicky over this affair? If 
Leturc had really intended to kidnap me, don’t you 
think he would have made some move before now?” 

Kilgour gently disengaged his right arm and, after 
one or two unsuccessful attempts, succeeded in lighting 
a cigarette. 

“I’m not very apprehensive myself,” he said. “In 
fact, I never have been. But I bow to Beaumont’s 
superior judgment in these matters. His theory, of 
course, is that—somehow—communications have passed 
between Leturc and Yen How, and that the former has 


CARNIVAL 


223 


simply been awaiting instructions. Otherwise, I cannot 
help thinking things have been bungled pretty badly. 
For instance, is it wisdom on Leturc’s part to remain 
so long on Charteris ? Ever since that first night at the 
parsonage, he must have known that our suspicions 
were aroused. Why he ever blurted out the fact that 
he knew all about Yen How’s rescuing you from your 
Hussein-Chinatown dilemna, I cannot think. Of course, 
Beaumont says he is addicted to drugs ... he may 
have been thrown temporarily off his guard by the 
habit; one never knows.” 

“Of course,” Vanda plucked at one of the bright 
buttons on his white coat; “of course Beaumont was 
very surprised when the Rhoda arrived yesterday.” 

“He did seem perturbed. As a matter of fact, that 
struck even me as very singular. She’s not due for 
several days yet, according to young Remy.” 

“Who is young Remy?” 

“The man who looks after the shipping—what little 
there is. Haven’t you met him? He’s conducting the 
orchestra to-night, and is dead-nuts on Lilian. And, by 
the way, speaking of Lilian, can you tell me why she is 
perpetually insisting that I resemble Gerald Randall in 
appearance? She seems to make a point of drawing 
your mother’s attention to the fact. I suppose it’s her 
way of being funny. I have never heard of anyone else 
remarking that we are alike. Have you , for instance, 
ever thought the same thing?” 

Vanda shook her head. 

“Never. Of course you both have the same coloured 
eyes, but, otherwise, I fail to perceive any likeness. 
Now, what were you saying? That boy, Remy, is ‘dead- 
nuts’ on Lilian?” 

“So Doris Lepmann told me. Regular village gossip, 
Doris . . . darn pretty all the same.” 

“But—tell me about Lilian.” 


224 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


“Oh, she won’t look at him; six years older and all 
that. I think it’s silly of a girl to refuse a man just 
because he’s a few years younger than she is. That sort 
of marriage only ends in tragedy when the man’s a 
weak fool or an out and out rotter. And if a man is 
that, his marriage will end in tragedy whether the girl 
is six years older or six years younger. But don’t you 
worry yourself about tragedies of any kind. Forget 
all about Lilian and Doris and Remy: and Leturc and 
Beaumont and all the rest of them. Your business is 
to think of me, and to keep on thinking of me until you 
simply can’t think of anything or anybody else!” 

“Selfish . . she teased him. “Don’t you know 
that the stern, strong man is absolutely out of date? 
You can’t lock a woman in a lonely turret and command 
her to think of no one but her gaoler nowadays, 
Monte!” 

But Kilgour was not listening. 

“Have you read that poem?” he said: 

“ Tn your arms was still delight. 

Quiet as a street at night; . . .’ ” 

She shook her head. 

“That poet knew . . .” he whispered above the ash- 
gold of her hair. “He knew. . . . Out here: all the 
beauty and the wonder, the magic and the love. . . . 
He understood the South Seas; and the glory of a 
woman’s face beneath the South Sea moon-” 

He bent and kissed her, almost reverently. 

“Vanda—you’re so wonderful you make me, some¬ 
times, just a little afraid of you. . . .” 

“Hush-” she said. “You must not say that-” 

He touched her white shoulder, from which the erring 
silk had slipped, with his lips. 

“You are,” he went on, very low, “so restful, so com¬ 
forting—somehow.” 





CARNIVAL 


225 


His voice thrilled: 

“You are—a haven. A naven ‘without wave or tide,’ 
into which the tired ship may creep . . . my ship. . . . 
You know that poem: I can’t get it out of my 
head-” 

“Say it,” she whispered her mouth against his cheek. 

“I—what is it* 

“ ‘O mother-quiet, breasts of peace. 

Where love itself would faint and cease! 

O infinite deep I never knew, 

I would come back, come back to you, 

Find you, as a pool unstirred. 

Kneel down by you, and never a wor** 

Lay my head, and nothing said. 

In your hands, ungarlanded; 

And a long watch you would keep; 

And I should sleep, and I should sleep!” 

It was, perhaps, some ten minutes later when he 
quitted the little lantana,-shrouded glade in which they 
had been sitting in search of fruit and sweet cake for 
the girl. 

“I shall not be many minutes,” he assured her. “Just 
running to the Mission. There are people all about 
and if—anything—should happen just yell . . . 
never mind the noise, yell! Do you understand?” 

She nodded, smiling; for anxiety was so plainly writ¬ 
ten upon his white, clear-cut features. Then, still smil¬ 
ing, and with his kisses still hot upon her lips, she 
stretched her limbs luxuriously among the long grasses 
and prepared to await his return. From quite close 
at hand came the rowdy bang and clatter of young 
Remy’s band. . . . 

Kilgour, true to his word, ran all the way to the Mis¬ 
sion—the journey occupying rather less than three 



226 THE FOREST OF FEAR 

minutes. In the corrugated iron porch he encountered 
Beaumont. 

“Hello,” said the Administrator laconically, “prac¬ 
tising for a Marathon race or something? Nothing the 
matter, I hope?” 

“Oh, no. Vanda is rather tired, and I have come to 
purchase sustenance for her—we’ve been dancing all 
evening-” 

“Spare me. Like the Upper Ten, I do not dance.” 

Kilgour looked at him amused. 

“I should hardly have thought Doris would have per¬ 
mitted the gawcherie -” 

“Doris,” affirmed Beaumont with asperity, “has been 
hauling me about the floor for the last hour and a half! 
But that is not dancing—it is elephant-breaking!” 

Kilgour glanced over his shoulder. 

“Where is Leturc?” 

“Dancing, I think. He was here a moment ago talk¬ 
ing to Mrs. Hardie. . . . Mac’s down at the quay: he 
is going to fire his blunderbuss if he sees or hears any¬ 
thing suspicious.” 

“And Lee Wong?’ 

<fi Lee Wong is here also. He is shadowing Leturc.” 

“I’m beginning to think our fears were groundless,” 
said Kilgour, unlatching the Mission door. 

“I don’t know . . . Ohlson has returned to the 
Rhoda -” 

“He can’t do it single-handed-” 

“Leturc, you mean? That’s how it strikes me. Of 
course, Mac’s theory is that he has bribed one or two 
of the natives to assist him, or one or other of the 
beachcombing crowd—Philip, the ex-cowboy, Morrison, 
or that poor whisky-sodden fool from Honolulu. . . . 
Where are you going?” 

“To get the grub—what’s left.” 

Beaumont threw away his cigarette. 






CARNIVAL 


227 


“May I come back with you and have a pow-wow? 
I’m sick of all this sweating scurry!”—he gave a ges¬ 
ture of disgust. 

“Certainly. I must get a move on, though. I 
promised Vanda I wouldn’t be long-” 

“She’s a plucky kid,” said Beaumont. “A damn 
plucky kid. I wish she was my daughter.” 

They pushed back into the throng of dancers, execut¬ 
ing perilous feats of balancing, and ducking and dodg¬ 
ing with the heaped platters in their hands. 

As they neared the glade where Vanda—still dream¬ 
ing, perhaps, of stolen kisses in the dusk—awaited his 
return, a figure stepped, with uncanny suddenness, from 
a streaming pool of purple shadow on Kilgour’s right. 
Quaintly, this diminutive figure bowed itself before them. 
It was Lee Wong. 

“The little lady,” he said very distinctly, “hab 
glon . . . that plenty bad feller, Leturc, he hab glon 
also-” 

“What?” roared Beaumont, flinging down his loaded 
plates in one grand glory of destruction. “What do 
you say?” 

“Come see,” said Lee Wong, imperturbably. 




XXII 


THE ARC OF DEATH 

At the quayside, whither—after raising the alarm—the 
Administrator had fled with Kilgour gasping and pant¬ 
ing at his heels, they found MacWhirter, nursing his 
blunderbuss, engrossed in desultory conversation with 
Lepmann’s wife, who, finding herself too old and too 
fat to take part in the revelries of the night, had re¬ 
turned home to solace her alien soul with Jcaua and 
cigarettes. 

The advent of Beaumont rudely shattered the equable 
surface of her little tete-a-tete with the dour old Scots¬ 
man, which, incidentally, she was just beginning to 
enjoy. 

The Administrator descended upon them obliquely: a 
towering menace of rage, bawling a torrent of oaths 
which—so acutely overstrung were his tortured nerves 
—caused Kilgour to burst into fits of hysterical laugh¬ 
ter as he followed in close pursuit. 

“Gone!” shouted Beaumont. “Mac—she’s gone! 
Y ou—you-” 

He seized the old man by the collar and jerked him 
to his feet. 

“Gone!” he yelled. “Vanished! Disappeared! 
Evaporated! Gone!” 

“Gone?” echoed MacWhirter stupidly. 

Beaumont spun round upon the crowd which had 
rapidly collected, for the news of Vanda’s abduction 
had spread like cholera about the Island. It never 
occurred to anyone to doubt that she had been ab~ 
228 



THE ARC OF DEATH 


229 


ducted. True, a couple of faint-hearted search-parties, 
organized by the half-crazed Pastor, were still explor¬ 
ing the groves which, but a few short minutes ago, had 
been the scene of such unrestrained gaiety. But now 
everyone—with the exception of these few deluded peo¬ 
ple—was thronging down to the lagoon, convinced that 
the next act of this extraordinary drama would be 
staged there. The Administrator’s eyes lit on Kilgour: 

“Where’s Lee Wong?” he cried. “Has anybody seen 
Lee Wong?” 

“He was here a moment ago,” said Kilgour, “I-” 

and even as he spoke, the small, lithe figure of the China¬ 
man slid panther-like to his side. 

“The Kitt y wake —she hab glon also!” announced Lee 
Wong. 

Beaumont, overhearing, lost his head. 

“A boat!” he cried. “Get me out a boat, you fools. 
Quick—or I will flog you within an inch of your lives l” 

MacWhirter laid a hand on his arm. 

“Ye’ll do no manner o’ good, laddie-” he began. 

Beaumont cut him short. 

“Hold your tongue! You’ve mulled this matter 
enough already! Hurry up with that boat, blast you!” 

A long fighting canoe, strangely reminiscent of an 
age and a people that are past, slid, bumping, against 
the wharf. Like a stone, the Administrator dropped 
into it, while Kilgour balanced himself in readiness to 
follow suit. 

“Keep back!” shouted Beaumont. “You’ll only 
weight us down—keep back! Lee Wong, I want 
you. . . .” 

With an ungainly sweep the big craft moved away 
from the jetty, her stern crashing against its wooden 
piles as she headed for the open lagoon. A shuddering 
moment she wallowed in the face of the tiny, sighing 
waves, then with,, a bound that seemed to put infinite 



230 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


distance between her and the watchers on shore she 
leapt to her paddles and—swifter than any felukkah 
shooting down old Nile—was gone. . . . 

“Quick work that,” said a voice which Kilgour later 
recognized to have been young Remy’s. 

He turned away—oppressed by that curious sense of 
impotence experienced by those who, while compelled to 
stand by in the capacity of spectator, are yet prevented 
from taking an active part in events such as the one 
he had just witnessed. 

He found the Hardies, white and stricken, at his side. 

“Do you know,” said Mrs. Hardie, trembling visibly, 
“do you know Lilian is in that canoe?” 

“Is she?” Somehow, her words conveyed no meaning 
to the young man who had taken her arm so reassur¬ 
ingly. “Is she? I didn’t know.” 

“Yes, she jumped in just as they were pushing off 
. . . I saw her. . . . Mr. Beaumont will be so angry.” 

Kilgour pulled himself together. What was that? 
Lilian in the canoe—jumping in just as it pushed away 
—Beaumont angry. . . . Nonsense! 

“Oh, you are mistaken,” he said, assuming a buoy¬ 
ancy he was far from feeling. “Lilian wouldn’t do a 
thing like that.” 

Doris Lepmann pushed aggressively between them: 
her beautiful face was a curious admixture of fear and 
indignation. 

“Oh, it’s quite true,” she said bitterly. “It’s all 
quite true—she did jump into the wretched boat!” 

She burst, suddenly, into a storm of passionate weep¬ 
ing, and clung to Kilgour’s arm. He looked down at 
her in dumbfounded annoyance. 

“Look here-” he said impatiently; and ceased 

speaking abruptly, as, loud and clear through the still 
air, there fell upon his ears the quick, staccato 
throbbing of a petrol engine. At first, so near, so 



THE ARC OF DEATH 


231 


imminent was it, he thought it must be Lepmann and 
his auto returning, belated from the Carnival. But a 
sudden exclamation from young Remy, followed by a 
loud, murmurous roar of amazement from the crowd, 
convinced him that he was mistaken. 

A blinding electric beam cut the starred darkness of 
the night like the white blade of a newly-tempered 
sword. A beam which swung hither and thither across 
the lagoon as, pulsing rhythmically, with a churning 
fan of foam pouring from her screw, the Kittiwake 
swept from her hiding-place in the lee of a small coral 
pier jutting out into the lagoon several hundred yards 
along the beach to the left of the quay and the ware¬ 
houses, and headed for the Great Gap in the barrier- 
reef. 

“Good God!” cried Kilgour. “Good God—he’s 
tricked us! He’s only just starting and—and— he’s 
going to run them down!” Then, as half-a-dozen men 
ran frantically for rifles: “Don’t shoot! Oh, Christ 
—don’t shoot! Vanda’s on board!” 

To Beaumont, crouched in the stern of the leaping 
proa , the realization that he had been fooled—utterly 
and most superbly fooled—came with the dull, numb¬ 
ing shock of complete anticlimax. He felt physically 
and mentally overcome with nausea . . . even the 
paroxysm of rage he had experienced subsequent to 
his discovery that Lilian had appointed herself a mem¬ 
ber of his crew paled into insignificance before this last 
supreme calamity! Wretchedly, he turned to where, 
wide-eyed and speechless, she crouched at his feet, 
drenched ever and anon with spray from the flying 
paddles. 

“The devil,” he said, as though unable to grasp the 
hitherto unrevealed depths of Leturc’s villainy. “The 
devil! And to think—just to think —we fools all bab- 


232 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


bling there on the quay and he—waiting, lying there in 
the shadows, laughing at us! The devil—to come out 
like this!” 

He stared at the swaying, questing beam of the Kitti- 
wake's single powerful electric head-lamp, and sudden 
wrath took him by the shoulders so that he stood up— 
reckless of the swirling death on either side—and 
bawled to his men: 

“Ease off! Ease off! Weigh up, you lubbers—we’re 
done!" 

The toiling Polynesians, great rivers of sweat pour¬ 
ing down their naked chests, lay back on their narrow 
seats; the paddles ceased to fly, and still heaving with 
the recent violence of her motion the great canoe lost 
way and wallowed, helpless, upon the heaving bosom of 
the lagoon—her last Titanic wrestle with wind and 
wave over, her death-knell, as it were, already sounding 
in the demoniacal laughter of the near-by reef. 

It was Lilian herself who first made the discovery 
which had already struck blank horror into the souls 
of Kilgour and his companions ashore. 

“Why—why-” she cried, half-standing, half- 

crouching against the side of the canoe. “Why, How¬ 
ard, he—he’s searching for us. He’s following us!” 

It was true. That white, merciless finger of light 
was pointing straight towards them across the star- 
gemmed waters of the lagoon. It was focussing itself 
deliberately upon their unwieldy, heavy craft . . . and 
every moment—even as the throb-throb of her engines 
grew clearer and more distinct—the blinding search¬ 
light of the Kittiwake drew nearer—widened—intensi¬ 
fied—swayed and played about them like a veritable 
Nemesis of flame! 

Beaumont, his cheeks ashen in that relentless glare, 
stared—his eyes bloodshot and filming—fascinated at 
that swiftly-approaching doom. Even the wild, terri- 




THE ARC OF DEATH 


233 


fied cries of his crew, who had instinctively realized 
what was about to happen, fell upon unheeding 
ears. . . . 

“The devil!” said Beaumont. “The Hell-fiend. . . ” 

Suddenly, before Lilian could reach out so much as 
a finger to prevent him, he leapt upon the thwart of the 
rocking canoe—balancing miraculously upon that slip¬ 
pery, sea-scarred edge. 

“Stop!” he bellowed with the full force of his lungs 
at the approaching craft. “For God’s sake— turn! 
There is a woman here. . . .” Then—as the searing 
arc swept his eyeballs like a brand of fire: “Jump!” he 
cried. “Jump—all of you!” 

And even as the words left his parched lips and the 
thunder of eternity drummed in his ears, the world be¬ 
came a whirling nebula? of flood and flame ... as the 
knife-bow of the flying Kittmake ripped the great 
fighting-canoe in twain and passed on. 


XXIII 


NOON OF LOVE 

To Beaumont, perhaps the most extraordinary thing 
in the whole course of that more than extraordinary 
evening was how—crouched, half-naked, upon the wave- 
swept parapet of the barrier-reef, with Lilian stretched 
senseless at his feet and Lee Wong dabbling crimson 
hands in the blood that pumped from his ripped side— 
he managed to marshal his bemused faculties sufficiently 
to enable his brain to conceive the idea of Morse¬ 
signalling the densely crowded occupants of the quay— 
faintly visible across the lagoon in the pale shimmer of 
the starshine—in order to assure them all was well . . . 
at least with three participants in his disastrous pur¬ 
suit of the arch-villain who had so triumphantly turned 
the tables against him. 

Fumbling in the pocket of his tattered trousers, he 
thanked whatever gods might or might not be for the 
inspiration which had that morning prompted him to 
slip a small torch-light therein. For a moment he toyed 
with the switch—so bewildered by the rush of recent 
happenings was his mind that he had quite forgotten 
which way it operated—and then, as the bulb kindled 
apologetically into a warm glow, he brandished it aloft 
in a salute of reassurance. 

He thought rapidly. Who among that stunned, per¬ 
plexed mass of people would understand Morse, and 
interpret his message correctly? Surely there was some¬ 
one—there must be someone, else why had the sugges- 
234 


NOON OF LOVE 


235 


tion been born thus in his brain? Who could interpret 
a message? Who understood the Morse code? He 
looked down at Lilian . . . miraculous that he should 
have saved her thus: dragged her back from the hungry 
arms of the sea: cheated Death of his prey . . . dear 
Lilian; brave Lilian. . . . Morse. That was it: Morse. 
Who did understand that damned Morse Code? Those 
odd little dots and dashes: full stops and hyphens? 
. . . Was it Remy—young Remy? Perhaps it was 
Remy. ... Of course, Remy was a shipping man! It 
would be Remy. . . . Curious how fuddled one got 
sometimes. Almost like drinking. . . . Remy. He 
would signal Remy. ... A ‘shipping man 5 in¬ 
deed. . . . 

High he swung his torch, spelling out his message in 
little blobs and streaks of light. His message. His 
message that he had saved Lilian. ... How did the 
code go? He must not confuse Remy—Remy was only 
young. Quite a boy, in fact. . . . Someone had said 
he loved Lilian. What absurd infatuations boys got 
sometimes! . . . What were the words of his message: 
his Commumque? Communique , indeed! . . . What 
was it he had intended to say? Something about oil 
. . . oil. . . . He must be very careful. . . . The 
torch flashed and expired, flashed and expired: 

Beaumont—Lieian—Safe—Bring—Canoe—Petroe 

Lee Wong stretched out weak, futile hands to catch 
him as he fell. . . . 

When Remy’s hastily-manned proa bumped its busi¬ 
ness-like nose against the polished walls of the reef, her 
occupants found six blood-stained and battered sur¬ 
vivors of the disaster disconsolately awaiting their ar¬ 
rival in various stages of exhaustion. The Adminis- 


236 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


trator himself, now almost fully recovered from the ef¬ 
fects of his adventure, caught the painter which Remy 
threw to him, and made the end secure round an out- 
jutting spur of coral. 

“Thank Heaven you’ve come!” he cried fervently. 

“Poor Lee Wong is about done in.” His voice 
dropped a tone: “We’ve lost three men . . . sharks, 
I expect. Have you brought the gasolene?” 

Remy nodded. 

“What d’you want that for?” 

“I’m going after him,” said Beaumont grimly. 
“That’s what I want it for.” 

“But-” 

Kilgour, who had just succeeded in jumping to the 
reef after two unsuccessful attempts, gazed at the 
speaker incredulously. 

“He can’t get far,” continued Beaumont wearily. 
“He hasn’t enough petrol, and the tank has a patent 
lock. He may—probably will—reach the Rhoda: she’ll 
be lying somewhere off the reef for him, I expect. He’ll 
be forced to abandon the Kittmake —unless they take 
her in tow, and I don’t think that’s likely —” 

“They’ll scuttle her,” ventured Remy. 

Beaumont’s eyes darkened. 

“Let them try. . . . No, they’ll not do that; it 
would waste too much time, and time’s the whole es¬ 
sence of their contract just now. They’ll leave her 
adrift—that’s all.” 

“But, man, you’re not fit to go chasing after them. 
You—you’ll collapse! Besides-” 

Beaumont laughed. 

“Not I. I tell you I’m going-” 

“And so am I,” added a quiet voice. 

They turned, startled. It was Lilian. Kilgour met 
the quiet scrutiny of her pale eyes . . . and looked at 
Beaumont, abashed. 










NOON OF LOVE 237 

“What?” said Beaumont. “You going? Don’t talk 
like a fool!” 

“I am going!” repeated Lilian. 

“I say you are not!” 

“I shall go, too,” said Kilgour. 

Beaumont turned on him savagely. 

“Are you both crazed? The Kittiwake , even sup¬ 
posing I manage to run across her, and the odds are 
even, will have to make the record of her life in order 
to overtake the Rhoda. Why, I may have to go search¬ 
ing the high seas in order even to sight her. I expect 
she’ll make for Apia, but God knows what elaborate 
plans those devils have made! I repeat, you cannot go 
with me—either of you. I might have taken Lee Wong, 
but-” he shrugged significantly. 

“If you flog me for it—I shall accompany you,” 
smiled Lilian. 

A moment their eyes met, then, with a gesture of 
resignation: 

“You obstinate child,” he said, a curious blending of 
wrath and admiration fighting for mastery in his voice. 
“Very well, you shall go. But who will look after your 
people!” 

“Monte,” said Lilian, still smiling that strange, enig¬ 
matic smile, as—beaten—Kilgour turned away. 

“And now,” continued Beaumont levelly, “we must 
signal for another boat. MacWhirter’ll understand 
what we mean.” 

“That’s all right, sir,” put in Remy. “There’s an¬ 
other one following us. It’ll be here any minute.” 

“Good,” commented Beaumont grimly. It was the 
first time he had quite realized what an extremely ef¬ 
ficient young person this understrapper was. “Well, 
when it arrives, I want you to get Lee Wong to Lep- 
mann’s house or my own bungalow as quickly as pos¬ 
sible. Understand? Miss Hardie has attended to his 






238 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


wound as well as she could. Tell Doris Lepmann to get 
him to bed and see to it properly—she’s the best nurse 
we have. . . . Oh, and you might ask Mrs. Hardie to 
have a look at him: it will help to keep her mind off 
this miserable business, eh, Lilian? Now, Remy, pick 
me a crew, I want to be off!” 

Remy briefly informed the seven young natives man¬ 
ning the canoe which had brought him out to the reef 
of the nature of the task before them; then he called 
for volunteers. Seven brown arms were immediately 
brandished high above an equal number of black, curly 
heads. 

“Good,” said Remy, and superintended the re-arrang- 
ing of several bright cans of gasolene in the form of a 
rude seat for Lilian and the Administrator. Then: 

“I think everything’s ready, sir,” he said. 

Beaumont gripped the boy’s arm. 

“This means promotion for you,” he replied quietly. 
“Come along, Lilian . . . Lee Wong will soon be safely 
home.” 

Remy—his feelings a chaotic tumult of delight tem¬ 
pered by the bitter realization of a hopeless love—as¬ 
sisted the girl into the rocking proa. Beaumont, after 
a last brief glance into the passive face of his faithful 
Chinese friend, seized Kilgour’s hand in a clasp of steel. 

“Au revoir , Monte. Keep the old people together. 
We shall win through yet.” 

“I wish-” began Kilgour regretfully; but Beau¬ 

mont was no longer at his side. 

Amid a shower of spray, the proa slipped, like a 
phantom, into the shadows. . . . 

“That,” said Remy, “is a mem!” 


Dawn, on a vast and sullen sea: horizonless, infinite: 
as yet untouched by the first fiery fingers of the still- 
sleeping sun. A dawn of disillusion and distress, of 





NOON OF LOVE 


239 


hopelessness and death—death of the tireless energy, 
the ruthless persistence which had made the intolerable 
anguish of the night worth while. . . . Cold, cruel 
dawn—devoid of all dissembling shadow. Stark. 
Merciless. Dawn of defeat. 

Beaumont—like some indomitable physician who has 
spent the hours of darkness in bitter warfare against 
powers which brook no human interference—crouched, 
leaden-eyed, in the stern of his proa: scanning, for the 
hundredth time, that silent, empty sea: that vast, secret 
Pacific, which, knowing all, reveals nothing: which, able 
to speak with the voice of thunder, yet chooses to 
remain silent. . . . 

With a groan of utter wretchedness, he hid his gaunt 
face in the palms of his hands and turned away. . . . 

Soft fingers touched his damp, tangled hair. 

“Howard. . . .” 

With a shudder, the man raised his heavy, swollen 
eyes. 

“Howard, don’t you think we had better return ? It’s 
no use. . . .” Then, as he did not reply: “Howard— 
I am proud of you.” 

He shifted on his seat until he faced her. 

“I thought you were asleep.” 

Lilian smiled faintly. 

“No, I was not asleep—only day-dreaming.” 

“Look at the men,” he said, dully, and: “They’re 
half-dead,” he added; “they can’t row another foot: 
not one of them.” 

“I know. . . .” 

The soft hand rumpling his coarse, salt-stiffened hair 
was infinitely gentle, infinitely caressive. 

“I know—that’s why I suggested that we had better 
put back. We might rig up a sail. It’s hopeless to 
think of finding the Kittiwake now ... I expect the 
Rhoda took her in tow.” 


240 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


He shook his head. 

“I don’t think so. There’s little or no swell, I expect 
she’s just drifting about here somewhere—unless”—his 
face grew bleak—“unless Remy was right, and they 
scuttled her!” 

“She may have drifted miles and miles out to sea by 
this time. It’s true there’s no swell, but there are 
currents.” 

“The tide has turned,” he said, strong in his con¬ 
viction that no ill could have befallen the trim little 
launch which—whilst love still slumbered in his heart 
—was yet his proudest possession. 

And he was right. 

An hour later, when the mists of morning were rising 
like diaphanous draperies from the bosom of the sea, 
Lilian, her lips sealed in the merciful silence of under¬ 
standing, discerned—so faint and far away at first that 
she rubbed her eyes in the vague unbelief of one who is 
the victim of an odd hallucination—the dark outline of 
some object wallowing forlornly in the tiny gutter of 
wind-ruffled waves far, far ahead to where on the 
horizon the first gold beams of the sun spurted through 
cloud banks of orange and primrose and palest blue. 

“It is shadow,” she thought, shading her eyes with 
one curved, slender hand. “I must not tell him . . . 
it is only shadow.” 

But suspicion, once born, would not be allayed. Care¬ 
fully balancing herself in the idly dipping proa , she 
stood upright and surveyed with eager, straining eyes 
that limitless expanse of sea: forcing her wearied brain 
to concentrate its attention upon that single, motion¬ 
less line, till every nerve in her body ached with the 
tension of the effort she imposed upon herself. 

“It is shadow,” she repeated to herself, again and 
again. “It is only shadow—or seaweed: seaweed and 


NOON OF LOVE 241 

shadow.” And suddenly she stooped and tapped the 
slumbering Beaumont upon the shoulder. 

“Howard, what is that?” 

He sat up very suddenly and looked at her. 

“Eh?” he said. “Is that you, Lee Wong?” 

“This is Lilian. Don’t you—remember?” 

“I—I must have been asleep. Is anything the 
matter ?” 

“No,” she replied slowly. “Nothing very particu¬ 
lar,” she laughed nervously. “You frightened me 
when you jumped up like that—I didn’t know you were 
asleep.” Her eyes roved over the shimmering waste of 
water, that flat, rippling sea which, like an enormous 
platter, surrounded their little craft. “There is some¬ 
thing away there”—she flung out her arm, half-closing 
her eyes the better to focus the tiny object which had 
caught her attention. “Something I can’t quite make 
out—the sunlight is growing too bright—like a patch 
of seaweed or a spar. There! Can you see ?” 

He followed the invisible line extending from her fore¬ 
finger towards the sun-washed East, craning his neck 
and leaning so far over the side of the canoe that she 
clutched at his torn white jacket in momentary fear 
that he would lose his balance and be precipitated into 
those pellucid amber depths through which dark, sin¬ 
ister shadows of evil, the hungry Tigers of the Pacific 
for ever darted and swayed. 

Then : 

“That’s not seaweed!” he cried. “It’s a boat—a 
ship!” 

He awoke to feverish activity, calling to the seven 
natives dozing, in utter exhaustion, above their motion¬ 
less paddles; exhorting them to one last supreme effort, 
clapping their bare, gnarled backs, and holding forth 
the promise of absurd, impossible reward if only they 
would overtake the drifting derelict slowly but im- 


242 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


perceptibly dropping further and further over the gun¬ 
wale into the infinity of light and cloud. 

Any traveller who is acquainted with the Polynesian 
at home will sing the praises of his staunch adherence 
to duty when once he is convinced that that duty is a 
right and proper thing. You cannot cajole a Poly¬ 
nesian to work for you, with any measure of success; 
nor can you bully him into a blind subservience. But 
if you are once able to gain his respect and that half¬ 
blind quality of devotion and fidelity which is in essence 
so curiously childlike, then, in very truth, you have en¬ 
listed the services of no mean ally. 

Had Beaumont been other than he was—a man of 
scrupulous honour and integrity—it is more than 
doubtful whether he would have been able to exert the 
force of his personality towards the attainment of his 
desire with the triumphant success which attended his 
present efforts. 

For his crew, from the moment that they compre¬ 
hended his assertion that the Kittiwake —the goal for 
which they had striven without ceasing throughout that 
tortuous night—was actually in sight and floating 
within a few short miles of their own little vessel, took 
to their paddles with an enthusiasm and vigour which 
surprised even the Administrator himself. 

“Bravo!” he cried, watching the powerful muscles 
ripple in splendid unison beneath the lean brown flesh. 
“Magnificent f 5 

To Lilian, her face once more streaming with spray 
flung from the flying paddles, it seemed that again the 
very spirit of the elements, the indomitable surge of 
power to which her whole being had thrilled response 
throughout the night, had once more taken possession 
of the oarsmen, animating each gigantic frame with the 
very life-breath of the old Polynesian gods: themselves 
lords of tempest and flame and flood since the world 


NOON OF LOVE 


243 


began. And when at length day burst serene and splen¬ 
did upon the world like some peerless princess of an¬ 
cient days new-risen from her couch to greet her love, 
they found the Kittiwake —her shapely hull scratched 
and scarred by her wild flight towards freedom and the 
open sea—rocking sedately within a hawser’s throw of 
the proa: emanating an impression of guilelessness, 
naivete, and contrition which made her a singularly 
pathetic object . . . adrift thus upon her aimless 
voyage across a chartless sea with no guiding hand to 
direct, or fondle, or control. . . . 

To bring the proa alongside was but the work of a 
few short moments, and, almost before a rope had been 
deftly lassoed about the wheel of the launch, Beaumont 
had clambered along an arm of the outrigger and was 
aboard. A hasty scrutiny soon convinced him that, 
apart from various unmistakable signs that a struggle 
of some kind had taken place, the boat was in perfect 
condition. Inspecting the dial of the petrol gauge, he 
found the tank to all intents and purposes empty. 

“Bring a couple of cans over,” he cried, and loosening 
the screw caps with a spanner soon had the odorous 
contents gurgling into the tank. When the last tin 
had been conveyed from the proa and drained, he 
stripped off his white jacket and commenced to swing 
the engine. A moment or two it spluttered sluggishly, 
and he experienced a paralysing fear that something 
was deranged—the high-tension wires, for instance. 
Then, with a chatter of loosely adjusted valves, it fired, 
and he slammed down the engine sheath, to find Lilian 
at his side. 

“Still determined to come with me?” 

She nodded. 

“Quite.” 

“Well, see if you can find a piece of sail-cloth or 


244 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


something; we must rig up a sun awning, the heat will 
Soon be unbearable.” 

“Have you got a chart?” she asked, ignoring the 

remark. 

“Yes, there should be one in the locker. Anyway, 
I’m going to head for Apia. We’re bound to run across 
the Rhoda sooner or later. Even if Ohlson uses his 
auxiliary engines, which I doubt, we can practically 
treble his speed: this is a racing launch, you know, not 
a river junk!” 

“But he had all the night in which to gain upon us.” 

“Oh no, we averaged eight or ten knots in the proa, 
and he would lose time beating about for wind. We’ve 
a sporting chance and”—he tapped the holster of his 
Webley significantly—“if we do catch them up we’ll 
make them give a good account of themselves. Right! 
Cast off! 

And with a churning smother of foam flowing from 
her screw, the Kittiwake swung away from the heaving 
proa, burying her sharp nose in the glassy waters of 
the Pacific as who should say: “Delay me not, my mas¬ 
ter is at the helm once more! He seeth the order of my 
going—and it is good!” 

Shortly before noon the engine stopped. 

The heat was intolerable: the sky was one vast in¬ 
verted bowl of light. Beaumont roused himself from 
the semi-stupor into which he had fallen, automatically 
checked his course by the chart lying curled at his 
feet, and crawled to the engine. A cursory examination 
of the carburetter brought to light the fact that gaso¬ 
lene had ceased to reach the float-chamber. 

“We can’t have run out yet,” he muttered, unscrew¬ 
ing the milled filler-cap mounted on top of the tank. “I 
replenished to the brim.” 

But the tank was bone-dry! 



NOON OF LOVE 


245 


He stared stupidly into it, unable to believe the evi¬ 
dence of his senses . . . then, replacing the filler-cap, 
he lurched aft to where Lilian—her whole body 
shrouded in a square of sail-cloth—lay stretched upon 
the burning pitch-moist floor boards. 

He turned back a corner of the sail-cloth, exposing 
her face to the pitiless glare of the sun; in it, as in the 
calcium rays of a stage spot-light, her features ap¬ 
peared incredibly white and old. . . . 

He moved away again, and commenced rummaging in 
a little box-like locker: returning after a while with a 
flask and a tiny pannikin of fresh water. Dropping on 
his knees beside her he endeavoured, without success, to 
force a little of the precious liquid between her cracked, 
blackened lips. Presently he desisted, and replacing the 
sail-cloth, sat for a long time staring at the bottle in 
his hand. . . . By and by he rose and, creeping softly 
to the locker, placed the flask in the corner where he 
had found it and shut the door. 

Then he lay down on the planking and hid his head 
beneath an overhanging corner of the sail-cloth. . . . 

Two hours later, he awoke with a feverish start and 
reopened the locker; taking out the flask of water and 
holding it up to examine its contents. His sight blurred 
suddenly, so that he beheld two bottles. . . . Why not 
tip the contents into the petrol tank? . . . 

To his horror, he found that he had stumbled to his 
feet and was fumbling with the catches of the engine 
sheath . . . the bottle slipped from his nerveless 
fingers and splintered to fragments against the metal 
casing! The sound of its fall, magnified a hundredfold 
by the absolute silence of sea and sky, restored his 
sanity, and the hot wave of delirium passed. 

He stooped to watch the trickling streams of water 
run willy-nilly along the planking until the furnace- 
blast of the sun struck them and they were gone. . . * 


246 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


And, doing so, he was surprised to perceive—in the nar¬ 
row blur of shadow cast by the rectangular petrol-tank 
—a faint many-coloured stain, now hardly perceptible, 
etched upon the teak bottom of the launch. A sudden, 
paralysing suspicion darted into his brain, and he put 
his face against the boards—sniffing. 

When he eventually stood up and made his way back 
to the huddled heap of sail-cloth lying in the stern, his 
mind was no longer perplexed by a hundred theories and 
suppositions as to why his petrol-tank had run dry: 
the brass cock at its base had come adrift, releasing the 
contents in a flood . . . that was all. So, by the enig¬ 
matic workings of Fate—or God—are the best laid 
schemes of man frustrated and his petty hopes 
destroyed. Discipline, some call it, the discipline of a 
Divinity which shapes our ends, devise or hew them as 
we will. 

And as he stood gazing down upon the huddled heap 
that was his sole companion upon that shining mirror 
of tropic sea, the sail-cloth stirred slightly and a white 
hand crept from beneath it, pushing its coarse folds 
aside with a weak impotence that was oddly pathetic. 

Beaumont dropped to his knees and took the limp 
white hand protectively in his own. 

“Lilian,” he faltered, “Lilian dear, we’ve got no more 
gasoline—the tank’s leaked. We can’t go any further.” 

Her grey eyes regarded him steadfastly from out her 
dead-white face. 

“Never mind. You’ve done your best and . . . I’ve 
got you.” 

Suddenly—amazingly—he took the limp, huddled 
heap in his arms. 

“My dear”—his voice broke—“Oh, Lilian, what have 
I donef You loved me and—and I have brought you 
out to— this /” His eyes swept the burning, pitiless 
horizon. “O Lilian, my love . . . my love. * . 


NOON OF LOVE 


247 


Her parched lips moved. 

“Have you ... is there any water?” 

He shook his head dully. 

“No. . . ” 

She shuddered slightly in his arms; and, startled, he 
peered into her eyes: the light in them dazzled, dazed 
him. He felt her fingers about his neck . . . then, 
dumbly, he bent his head and closed her mouth in one 
long, endless kiss. . . • 


BOOK III 


XXIV 

PACIFIC 

Wireless Operator Frederick J. Nettlefold—familiarly 
known to his one English brother officer upon the s.s. 
Emperor of Nanking as ‘Sparks’ or ‘Freddie,’ lounged 
against an empty bunk in the seamen’s quarters and 
puffed languidly at his charred briar pipe. 

A cheerful, ebullient youth was Freddie, rising some 
twenty-six summers and on the whole enjoying life 
immensely; for if it were not strictly true that he pos¬ 
sessed the proverbial girl in every port, at least he had 
done uncommonly well for himself, and could—had he 
chosen—have boasted over the fact that he had left 
behind him in far Plymouth at least three pretty and 
desirable female persons of tender years who literally 
counted the hours till his return. 

At the present moment, however, the wide, youthful 
brow of Mr. Nettlefold was corrugated with deep lines 
of perplexity—for he was vainly endeavouring to fol¬ 
low the tense yet silent progress of a singular gambling 
game being played to a remorseless conclusion by four 
or five Chinese sailors, beneath the cold, white glare of 
a paper-shaded electric lamp. The game—played on 
the curious Macao principle—was, by reason of its 
very uncertainty, fascinating. The wireless man stared 
at the large irregular square chalked on the planking 
beneath his feet, and essayed without success to cal¬ 
culate the total value of the coins ranged along its sides 
*—which were labelled, respectively, 1, 2, 3 and 4. 

248 



PACIFIC 


249 


He had seen the system employed frequently—in 
Macao itself, for instance, where he had once spent a 
hectic night on the anniversary of the Chinese Republic. 
But it had always confused and irritated him, and he 
greatly preferred the less epicurean though insular 
proposition of backing a sound British thoroughbred. 

His interest waned, and rekindling his pipe, which— 
weary of well-doing—had expired, about-turned, and 
made his way on deck. 

The night was a veritable dream of delight: the dark 
blue dome of the tropic sky powdered with innumerable 
stars. Glancing idly about the heavens for Tcm ha , the 
Southern Cross, he was aware of a rich, elusive fra¬ 
grance blown on the soft, warm breeze across his nos¬ 
trils. His whole being thrilled to the consciousness of 
that exquisite aroma ... it was the breath of the 
South Sea world: witching as the sighs parting the red 
lips of drowsy Nereid turning upon her couch of silver 
and amethyst to greet her love. . . . 

Entranced, Nettlefold removed his briar and stood 
by the rails, drinking it in till his senses grew almost 
drugged with the indescribable sweetness of it. 

Over the vessel’s side, the deep, unruffled night swell 
of the Pacific crooned a melody gentle and wistful as the 
murmur of a young mother soothing her first-born: 
swish . . . swish . . . almost the rocking of a cradle, 
to a wordless lullaby. 

Nettlefold knew the Pacific, and loved it: deeply, 
intimately: with that abiding affection which comes only 
from a perfect understanding. In each changing mood 
he found the reflex of his own most secret emotions; in 
its wrath, the primeval wrath pent-up in the hearts of 
all mankind: in its tranquillity, the peace which passes 
understanding. 

In the service of the P. and O., Orient, and, on one 
occasion, the Nippon Yusen-Kaisha, he had made ac- 


250 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


quaintance with the wonder-world which lies below the 
Line—and the spell of the wonder-world had never quite 
relaxed its hold upon him. In the roar and bustle of 
the lighted Strand, he heard the echo of waves crum¬ 
pling upon a far-away reef: in the black, jagged night- 
sky of winter-England, he beheld again the cloud- 
wreathed chain of mountains standing in perpetual 
guard over Suva Bay: in the wailing of the wind 
through the spars and rigging of the vessels anchored 
in Plymouth Sound, the macabre melody played by the 
Trades in the branches of the mahogany trees: in the 
colours of a rainbow, the flaming pastel splendour of 
the Island Dawn. 

Kissing—in playful passion—the rosy English girls 
to whom he made transient love when ashore, his heart 
would grow sick for the shaded liana-groves, the bril¬ 
liant moonlight, the clinging brown arms of the South: 
where men and women made love lightly and wantonly, 
and when daylight came passed on . . . their minds un¬ 
haunted by fearsome thoughts of a Breach of Promise 
action, or a scandal in the newspapers. But—heigh- 
ho !—England was England, and the Pacific the Pacific 
—and it did not do to let one’s mind become too ob¬ 
sessed with thoughts of idyllic romances beneath idyllic 
skies. For along that flowered pathway lay Destruc¬ 
tion—and Frederick James Nettlefold had no wish to 
be destroyed, or even to act the part of a Destroyer. 

Nevertheless, as he gazed down into the softly-phos- 
phorescent waters which rippled along the white hull of 
the Emperor of Nanking , England—and home—seemed 
very, very far away. Almost as though at the very 
caress of that warm, scent-heavy tropic breeze which 
betokened land somewhere on the star-encrusted horizon, 
the garments of civilization fell, crumbling, from his 
body: as, with a sigh of luxurious contentment, he pic¬ 
tured himself once again emerging from the warm 


PACIFIC 


251 


depths of some shadowy lagoon, pursued by the dusky, 
dripping naiads who were his sole playmates in this 
earthly Paradise. 

With a slight start, he roused himself from his 
lethargy and decided to glance in at the Marconi-room 
before making his way to bed. Originally, Nettlefold 
had slept in the instrument cabin, which, in accordance 
with the usual practice, possessed a small, coffin-like 
receptacle the shipbuilders were pleased to term a 
‘bunk.’ But here in the Pacific, where Calls were few 
and far between, he shared a cabin below-deck with the 
English First Officer. Just, however, as he was about 
to unlock the door of the instrument-room—which was 
situated abaft the bridge—he was surprised to hear the 
faint whirring of a bell down in the engine-room. 

“Hullo,” he said to himself. “Dead Slow! I wonder 
what that’s for?” 

The monotonous thudding of the engines gradually 
ceased, until only an occasional, spasmodic churning of 
the twin screws betrayed the fact that the yacht was 
still under way. Slipping the bunch of keys in his 
pocket again, he crossed the deck, almost colliding with 
a Cantonese seaman who was running in the opposite 
direction, a coil of rope in his hands. 

“Where’re you goin’, Chinky?” 

The sailor stopped abruptly, almost losing his 
balance. 

“Plenty big sailing-ship ober there,” he murmured, 
pointing vaguely towards the unruffled carpet of the 
sea. 

“The deuce there is ?” 

In the exigency of the moment, the wireless operator 
produced his pipe and commenced to stuff tobacco into 
the bowl with rapid, careless fingers; so that when he 
arrived a little later at the rail, he found a small group 
of seamen already clustered about one of the indrawn 


252 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


gangways, whilst lounging against a boat-davit, a 
folded copy of an Auckland newspaper under his arm, 
he caught a glimpse of the owner of the yacht—the 
wealthy Chinese in whose service he, at the moment, 
obtained the wherewithals of existence. Respectfully, 
he touched his peaked cap. Yen How nodded, almost 
imperceptibly. 

Shading his eyes, for the moonlight slanted vividly 
across the spotless deck, Nettlefold discerned, perhaps a 
quarter of a mile away, the black, rather sinister out¬ 
line of a vessel. 

“Four-masted brigantine,” he soliloquized. “No, 
wait a moment, she’s a schooner-” 

He regarded the strange craft in evident perplexity. 
It was distinctly unusual for a shabby Trader—whose 
sails, when they guyed to the breeze, were brown as 
blanket-cloth—to arrest the progress of a steamship 
on the high seas. 

Quite evidently something was amiss. 

“Wonder what the blazes they’re after?” he con¬ 
tinued. “She can’t be in difficulties on a night like this. 
Perhaps there’s a fire on board—in the galley-” 

A sailor lounged up to him, hands thrust deep in his 
capacious trouser-pockets. 

“ ’Lo, Freddie,” he hailed the puzzled operator cheer¬ 
fully. “Wonderin’ whether yer couldn’t fit an aerial on 
’er? Not worth it, my lad, she’s as old as the hills an’ 
I reckon she won’t be long before she axes Davy Jones 
whether ’e ain’t got no room fer a little *un!” 

“What does a dirty Windjammer like that want with 
us?” asked Nettlefold, ignoring the other’s ill-timed 
attempt at levity. 

“Don’t ax me! P’raps there’s a missionary on board 
as thinks we’re all ’eathen Chinee! Strewth! If that’s 
the game, I reckon I’m turnin’ in.” 

“Oh, it’s not that-” retorted Nettlefold absently. 





PACIFIC 


253 


“I’ll bet his little tin-godship over there has got some¬ 
thing to do with it!” 

“Me no savee,” said the sailor, grinning. “Go an’ ax 
’im!” 

“Go and ask the devil! Do you think I’m going kow¬ 
towing to him? Why, it takes me all my time to keep 
myself from pushing him over the side!” 

“Same here,” avowed Able Seaman Andy MacWhirter 
solemnly. “Though we hadna better forget he give us 
the dibs, eh?” 

“I’m through with him an’ his ‘dibs’ as soon as this 
little jaunt ends!” vouchsafed Nettlefold with some 
heat; then: “But God knows where it will end . . he 
added, almost, it would seem, with dismaj' in his usu¬ 
ally cheerful voice. 

“They’re lowerin’ a boat,” exclaimed the sailor with 
intense satisfaction, as who should say: ‘Now we ought 
to learn something!’ 

“What ? Who is lowering a boat ?” 

“The schooner. Reckon we’re goin’ ter pick some¬ 
one up.” 

Sure enough, across the intervening stretch of water, 
a small ship’s boat was zig-zagging a rather erratic 
course towards the yacht. 

“Rummy!” said Nettlefold. 

As the tiny craft drew momentarily nearer, Yen How, 
lighting a cigarette, commenced to pace the deck in what 
was evidently ill-concealed impatience. He issued a 
number of directions to the Chinese sailors, and by and 
by a stout ladder slid slowly down the smooth side of 
the yacht and came to rest a foot or so above the 
surface of the sea. 

Five minutes later, a man clambered up it and stood 
on the deck of the yacht, addressing her owner in ex¬ 
cellent and rapid Chinese. 

A singular person—this fluent arrival from the old 


254 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


trading schooner. Standing, vividly conspicuous, in 
the merciless moonlight of that tropic eve, he seemed to 
Nettlefold endowed with an extraordinary quality of 
the sinister and macabre . 

By reason of his obvious weakness for gesture and 
ejaculation, the wireless operator judged him to be a 
Frenchman. Indeed, in every flutter and palaver of his 
long hands, his volatile nationality was plainly ap¬ 
parent. He was comparatively tall: would, in fact, 
have been unusually so but for a slight deformity, a 
curious droop of the shoulder blades. But most of all, 
his eyes impressed Nettlefold. They were green, almost 
cat-like, and possessed that odd suggestion of an inner 
illumination to be perceived sometimes in the eyes of a 
mesmerist. Also, there lurked a sense of abnormality 
in the tireless energy of his speech and movements: a 
manifestation of an internal driving-force, as it were, 
which kept his mentality for the time being at more 
or less white-heat. Irrelevantly, Nettlefold conceived 
it possible that this stranger took drugs . . . that the 
fire and animation he had assumed for the occasion 
would quickly smoulder and die out, leaving his brain 
dull and sluggish. 

These, it should be understood, were the impressions 
of an instant, for a commotion about the ladder-head 
had speedily drawn him to the rail—where he was sur¬ 
prised to see another man, a sailor from the schooner 
standing by, clambering with difficulty up the vertical 
rungs, and bearing over his shoulder the limp, inert 
body of a woman. 

“Michaelmas Daisies!” ejaculated Mr. Nettlefold to 
no one in particular. “What the blinkin’-” 

He ceased speaking abruptly—mouth hanging open 
—as, with a grunt of satisfaction, the seaman deposited 
his burden at the feet of Yen How and his companion 
with the strange, hypnotic eyes. 



PACIFIC 


255 


“Shoot me!” said Mr. Nettlefold, with emphasis. 

Yen How brushed a speck of cigarette-ash from his 
dinner-jacket, and: 

“Nettlefold!” he called. 

The Marconi man sprang to attention. 

“Sir?” 

“Go now, please, and discover for me the excellent 
Englishman who is assisting my praiseworthy Captain 
and engineers to operate this ship. Tell him I would 
speak with him immediately.” 

“Yessir!” 

Nettlefold darted one astonished glance at the pros¬ 
trate figure on the deck and then hurried away to de¬ 
liver the Mandarin’s message. As he ran down the 
companionway: 

“If that doesn’t beat the band!” he said to himself. 
“Holy smoke—I saw a devil in that Chinky’s eyes when 
he looked at the girl. . . . Felix!” 

An immaculate, uniformed figure leaning against the 
insulated casing of the great lightning dynamo erected 
in a corner of the engine room, stirred slightly and 
opened wide a pair of bright penetrating eyes. 

Above the thump and racket of the slowly-turning 
engines, the strong baritone voice of the wireless opera¬ 
tor quavered as though it emanated from a point in 
endless space. 

“F e-lix!” 

The blue-clad First Officer abruptly brought to a 
close the conversation he had, but a few moments earlier, 
inaugurated with one of the Chinese engineers, and, 
stretching indolently, inquired in a voice as refreshingly 
English as Nettlefold’s own: 

“Hullo? That someone calling?” 

Nettlefold poked his head through the narrow, open 
door. 


256 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


“Felix, are you there? The Chief wants you on deck 
at once. Get a move on!” 

“Damn!” said Felix Hobson, disrespectfully—for it 
had been a sore blow to his stubborn British pride that 
he had, owing to circumstances beyond his control, been 
compelled to accept a post on board a Chinese gentle¬ 
man’s yacht—though the salary attaching to that post 
would have given any average mercantile-marine officer 
convulsions even to contemplate. A sore blow—and 
the wound thereof was still raw. “Damn! Do you 
mean the Captain?” 

Nettlefold grinned lugubriously. 

“No. Old Hen-Pen—or whatever his blinkin’ cogno¬ 
men happens to be. They’ve got a girl on board. Just 
rowed her over from a schooner. Didn’t see much of 
her, but she looked infernally pretty-” 

“A girl , Freddie?” 

“Mmph ... I reckon she’s drugged or something. 
Hurry up, do!” 

“Drugged?” said Hobson incredulously, wiping his 
right hand on a piece of cotton waste. 

“You perceive, First Officer,” Yen How murmured 
softly, “that we are, from this time forth, to be hon¬ 
oured with the presence of a passenger . . . two pas¬ 
sengers, in fact. It is my wish that a state-room be im¬ 
mediately prepared for the reception of Monsieur Le- 
turc, my guest.” 

Hobson pulled himself together, and stared at the 
crumpled, dishevelled body stretched upon the divan in 
the centre of Yen How’s cabin. The delicate, flimsy 
material of the girl’s dress—some sort of party-frock, 
it seemed to him to be—was torn about the bosom, and 
the soft curves of her young breast were plainly visible. 

Yen How laid possessive fingers upon one white 
shoulder. 



PACIFIC 


257 


“To-night,” he continued in that gentle, half cares- 
sive voice, “Lu Yan, my servant, shall array her, when 
she wakes, in her bridal night-gown of clinging, coloured 
silks: so that she may be fitly decked to meet her pre¬ 
destined lover. Sweet creams and scents as used by 
the flower-maidens of old Nippon shall anoint her body, 
that it may be fragrant for my kisses. Bewitching 
odours—incense, wistaria, spikenard and eato-de-naffe 
—shall lull her tender soul to dreams of utmost 
bliss. . . . 

“Meanwhile, most excellent First Officer, see to it that 
my commands are carried out, and maintain the vessel 
on her course round Charteris Island.” 

Hobson jerked himself upright, and, turning, faced 
the gibing Oriental, who had taken up a strategic posi¬ 
tion a little in his rear. For one paralysing second he 
was possessed by an insane desire to dash his bare fist 
full into that evil, pock-scarred and almost colourless 
countenance—shattering those immense horn-rimmed 
lenses the Mandarin affected full into his narrow oblique 
eyes. Then, realizing the utter futility of such an ac¬ 
tion, he let his own gaze rove the luxurious, exotic little 
apartment until he espied—for the first time—Yen 
How’s second ‘passenger’: the Frenchman, Monsieur 
Leturc, who was sitting hulched in a chair, smoking a 
cigar. 

As their eyes met, the latter bowed with mock cour¬ 
tesy. Hobson, scarcely deigning to acknowledge the 
salutation, turned on his heel; whilst Yen How, smiling 
faintly, lit a cigarette. 

Reaching the door: 

“Will not the young lady require a state-room also ?” 
queried the First Officer sharply. 

Yen How removed his horn-rimmed spectacles. 

“Thank you—no.” 

As Hobson still lingered uncertainly in the doorway, 


258 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


Leturc roused himself, and, sitting upright in his chair, 
addressed the Mandarin. 

“It is possible, my Master, that the Englishman fails 
to comprehend the manifold signs of culture and high 
breeding manifest upon the face of her who sleeps so 
serenely on the divan yonder.’* Then, leering through 
the slender plumes of smoke, wavering, fan-like, about 
the apartment: “Know thou,” he said to Hobson, “that 
she upon whom thou gazest is none other than the fos¬ 
ter-niece of Gerald Randall—the greatest financier in 
the United States !” 

“Fool-gritted Yen How. “What is that to 

him?” 

Leturc laughed. 

“Naught—save that it were well these hirelings of 
thine be instructed to treat thy guests with a seemly 
deference. That, most illustrious Master, is all.” 

“But what-” began the dazed First Officer. 

Yen How raised a slender, taper-nailed finger. 

“Enough, you may go.” 

Still Felix Hobson hesitated. The Chinaman’s brow 
creased until a hundred lines seemed to leap into being 
thereon, as: 

“There is a way,” he almost whispered, brushing the 
silken lapel of his dinner-jacket with that slender, 
skeleton finger, “of removing obstreperous persons who 
will not take their departure from my presence when 
requested. . . .” 

And, as he spoke, a bulbul—captive in a gilded cage 
upon the wall—commenced to sing softly of enchanted 
nights in some far-distant garden of Kama: where the 
parakeets flitted across the moon and the jasmine and 
oleander distilled their sweetness on the silent air. 


“Lord!” exclaimed Nettlefold in consternation. 




PACIFIC 259 

“What has happened? You look as though you had 
just seen a ghost!” 

“I have seen a ghost—the ghost of a woman who has 
been foully betrayed into the hands of yonder yellow 
devil! Freddie, find Andy MacWhirter—he’s the only 
other white man on this accursed ship. We’ve got to 
stop this thing. At once! Do you hear me?” 

“But,” expostulated the astonished operator, “what 
has happened? What do you mean? Stop what 
thing?” 

“That girl,” said Hobson; “do you know who she is? 
She is the adopted niece of a famous American financier 
—Gerald Randall. I have read of him many a time. 
He cleared Wall Street out some few months ago.” 

“Gerald Randall?” echoed the slow-witted Mr. Net¬ 
tlefold. “Never heard of the feller. But, anyway, 
what’s his niece doing on the Emperor of Nanking? I 
reckon this boat isn’t much of a Seminary for Young 
Ladies-” 

Hobson groaned. 

“Oh, don’t you understand? Can’t you see? He— 
they—have abducted her somehow, from somewhere. 
Damn it, I can’t explain. But it must be stopped, I tell 
you—and it’s up to us : after all, we’re English. I don’t 
want to waste time bandying words; we’ve got to get 
this child out of the Chink’s clutches without delay. 
Why—even now he is ordering her night-attire!” 

Nettlefold’s youthful brow darkened. 

“Do you mean that?” he jerked. 

“Honest-to-God, I do.” 

“Then,” said Nettlefold slowly, “you’re right. We’ve 
got to stop it. I don’t understand things at all. 
Everything is a confounded mystery: this ship—the 
voyage—the mining-tackle we’ve got in the hold— 
everything! And now the girl. But . . . she’s white, 
and we’ve just got to stop it! Would to Heaven I’d 



260 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


never signed on for this trip!” He paused, as though 
bracing himself for what was to come, then: “Lead 
ahead,” he continued; “Fm ready. . . .” 

“Good man,” retorted Hobson unevenly. 


XXV 


“en rapport” 

The drone of the tiny electric motor concealed snugly 
beneath the strong oaken bench on which were mounted 
that peculiarly complex assortment of instruments nec¬ 
essary to etheric communication rose in a muted cres¬ 
cendo on the still air, and ceased; only to whirr out 
again and yet again as the message leapt from the 
aerials into space. 

The two men standing cramped behind the operator’s 
chair watched, fascinated, the monotonous jumping of 
the transmitting key. It was almost as though the des¬ 
tiny of a whole universe sparked and quivered between 
the tiny contact points. 

The motor purred happily, almost like a sleek tabby- 
cat dozing before a Yule-tide fire, as: ‘ Tap — tap—tap 
. . .’ went the Morse: cold passionless language so 
pregnant with fate. . . . 

Nettlefold removed the phones from his ears and laid 
them on the bench. His face, tense and lined, yet bore 
the faintest smile of satisfaction; so that, instinctively, 
they knew that he had established the mysterious rap¬ 
port of the wireless man. 

“I’ve got her,” he said quietly. “She’s off Pago- 
Pago, but she’s coming full-steam ahead. I reckon 
she’ll take about——” 

“Who is she?” asked Hobson. 

“ Republic —first-class battle-cruiser, U. S. Squad¬ 
ron, Commodore Willys. I guess her fightin’-tops’ll be 
visible before you can say ‘Moses’ twice. If she’s what 
261 



262 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


I think, she’d make a New York-Liverpool record- 
breaker look Dretty sick when it came to a question 
of knotsI” 

He laughed grimly. 

“Good,” said Hobson. “And now, gentlemen, what 
is to be done in the meanwhile?” 

“Ah,” retorted Nettlefold, “there you have me. 
What is to be done in the meanwhile?” 

“Did Commodore Willys, or whatever his name is, 
give you any instructions?” 

“He told me to take no action unless such a step 
became absolutely imperative.” 

“And what does he consider ‘imperative’?” asked 
Hobson dryly. 

Nettlefold shrugged his shoulders. 

“The point is, how are we to stop to-night’s atrocity ? 
If only the Captain were an Englishman instead of a 
damned Chinky!” 

“It’s no use indulging in regrets,” said Hobson. 
“Seems to me we’ll have to take the law into our own 
hands, and demand that he shall liberate the girl until 
the circumstances of her arrival here are inquired into. 
After all, she’s a States citizen.” 

“Where is the nearest Consulate?” put in Able Sea¬ 
man MacWhirter. 

“Apia—and there’s another at Papeete.” 

“United States?” 

“Of course.” 

“Well, why not get into touch with them?” 

“Impossible. Man, do you think every blinking 
island in this latitude is equipped with a station?” 

“No, I suppose not,” said the sailor. “There’s one 
way, though-” 

“What’s that ?” queried two voices simultaneously. 

MacWhirter picked up a pencil from the operator’* 
table, and fingered it tentatively. 



“EN RAPPORT” 263 

“It couldn’t be done,” he said flatly. “I was a blame 
fool to think of it.” 

“But what was the giddy wheeze, anyway?” asked 
Nettlefold. 

“Suppose,” said MacWhirter slowly, “that Mr. Hob¬ 
son here did demand her liberation; would Hen-Pen 
consent, if we threatened ter blow ’is blinkin’ ’ead off, 
or somethin’?” 

“I doubt it”—from Hobson. 

“You mean his crew and the Chinese officers would 
all rally round him: theoretically, there might be a 
deuced unpleasant scrap, in fact?” Nettlefold 
interposed. 

“Practically,” smiled Hobson, “we should all go 
West-West. Knives, my dear fellow, and twelve yellow 
devils behind ’em . . . the prospect is not healthy!” 

“I don’t know about that . . .” resumed Nettlefold, 
lighting his pipe. “You must remember all these sailors 
of ours are Tong men.” 

“And Yen How is a Tong Chief,” added Hobson. 

“An unpopular Tong Chief” continued the operator 
with emphasis. “Isn’t that so, MacWhirter?” 

The A.B., who had remained silent, nodded assent: 
“Some of ’em hate ’im like poison!” he said with deep 
conviction. 

Hobson smiled again. 

“I see the gentle implication,” he said. “You mean, 
Sparks, that Yen How might get the shock of his life if 
we played our cards well?” 

“If we played our cards well, yes. Unfortunately, it’s 
a darned big risk to take. If they failed to rally round 
him we should more or less have the ship under our con¬ 
trol—see ? On the other hand-” 

“By the way,” said Hobson, “have either of you 
fellows at any time ever heard or seen any signs of 
mutiny or treachery?” 



THE FOREST OF FEAR 


“Yes!” retorted MacWhirter surprisingly. 

“What have you heard?” 

“Nothink—but Fve seen a good bit. Whisperin’s 
an* such-like; an* confabs in the fo’castle when they’ve 
thought no one was lookin’. Besides, I once ’eard that 
feller Lu Yan say to one o’ ’is pals: 4 Tm plenty bad 
Chief. ’Xm no good tongee man at allee.’ ” 

“The deuce you did?” 

Nettlefold glanced at the chronometer. 

“Time flies. We’ll have to make up our minds one 
way or another, or it will soon be too late.” 

Too late. The words fell almost with that curious, 
ultimate air of fatality which overhangs the passing of 
a Criminal Court sentence. 

“If we take no action,” said Hobson in the calm, 
balanced voice of a prosecuting counsel, “it is inevitable 
that this girl will be compelled to pass the night in Yen 
How’s cabin. Morning, in that event, would—also 
inevitably—find her ruined. The question for you to 
decide is whether you are willing that she shall be 
ruined. She is not English, and legally we cannot make 
ourselves responsible for her welfare. Morally, of 
course, we——” 

Nettlefold nodded comprehension. 

“Yes, morally , our duty is plain,” he said. “But, 
naturally, you have to think twice before you run the 
risk of a scrap on the high seas with a whole ship’s com¬ 
pany—especially when that same company is composed 
almost entirely of Chinamen! Though what does that 
matter when a woman’s honour is at stake ?” 

Something whirred agitatedly, with a shrill, bell-like 
note. Stooping, Nettlefold clapped the headpiece to his 
ears. Breathless, the other men stared at a long, thin 
worm of paper slowly uncoiling itself from a large wheel 
situated on the operator’s right hand. . . . 

“What is it?” demanded Hobson. 



“EN RAPPORT” 


265 


Nettlefold juggled with the switches: something 
sparked vividly, and the code-tape ceased to unwind. 
When he looked up, after scanning the legend so mys¬ 
teriously inked upon it, his young face looked bleak, 
and suddenly old. 

“She’s sheared a propeller,” he said dully. “Within 
five minutes of replying to my call . . . submerged 
wreckage, or something . . . they’re coming on at half¬ 
speed. . . 

“My God!” muttered Hobson. “I guess that about 
settles it.” 

“Yes,” agreed Nettlefold, “that about settles it. 
Get your revolvers ready, boys. We’ll need all our lead 
before this game’s finished! Andy, you’d better take 
this little Iver-Johnston of mine . . . she’s dead sure, 
and there’s a safety trigger. Now—who’s going to 
beard the lion? I must confess / don’t feel much like 
a second Daniel, even if I have, so to speak, come to 
judgment!” 

“As First Officer, I shall interview Yen How,” an¬ 
nounced Hobson. “You, Sparks, had better wait here 
till you get wind how the land lies. MacWhirter, go 
and blink your peepers over the crew for us and report 
here in five minutes. We can discuss plans afterwards. 
So long.” 


XXVI 


HOBSON 

Now that matters had definitely come to a crisis, the 
First Officer of the Emperor of Nanking experienced 
little or no qualms about stating his proposition to the 
owner of the steam yacht. An Englishman of the old 
school, he fairly typified a genus of mankind which, 
while always prone to err on the side of caution, was 
at the same time quite prepared to throw caution to the 
winds the moment he realized that its presence was a 
deterrent to the furtherance of his plans. 

So, therefore, as he made his way below deck to Yen 
How’s diminutive suite, he whistled a haunting melody 
from one of the many leg-and-ankle musical comedies 
that had been delighting London and, incidentally, him¬ 
self, before he sailed South under the yellow sun of the 
blood-red Chinese emblem. 

To his courteous knock, a low-pitched voice replied: 

“Come in.” 

Felix Hobson entered. 

Carefully closing the panelled door behind him, and 
removing his peaked-cap, he advanced across the soft- 
pile Khorassan carpet until he stood within a few paces 
of the Mandarin. A swift glance round the room con¬ 
vinced him that the Chinaman was the only occupant. 

“You wish to see me, Officer?” 

Hobson planted his feet very wide apart—a curious 
mannerism for which he frequently received much good- 
natured chaff and banter in the mess. 

“I do,” he stated briefly. 

266 


HOBSON 


267 


“Concerning what ?” 

The Englishman took a deep breath, and: 

“A little while ago, sir,” he said, “a young lady was 
shipped aboard this yacht. From all visible evidence, I 
should be inclined to say that she has been kidnapped. 
At any rate, she was drugged —that fact was obvious 
enough to a pig with a blind eye. Now, it’s not my place 
to say anything about any cargo you care to ship, but 
when that same cargo happens to be a woman, and, 
further, happens to be a drugged woman, I reckon that 
Fm not liable to be blamed overmuch if my suspicions 
are aroused. Also, I don’t see just why this young lady 
should be ordered to deck herself out in a lot of Chinese 
lace and silk and whatnot, just as if she was going to be 
married. It may be none of my business, but I’d like 
you, sir, just to explain these little details, and then 
we—I—shall know where I stand. Savvy?” 

His voice, though peremptory, was in no way inso¬ 
lent. Yen How regarded him through half-closed eyes. 

Hobson sprawled his businesslike feet yet further 
apart, causing the Oriental to glance at them with a 
curious little start of dismay. Then the latter pro¬ 
duced a cigarette of incredible length, and lit it. 

“I do not understand you,” he said suavely. 

The triangle formed with the floor by the First 
Officer’s limbs increased its area slightly. 

“No?” queried Hobson, relieved. 

He had hardly known in what manner the Mandarin 
would meet this, his first offensive. Anger, uncontrol¬ 
lable passion, mockery, fear—all these he had antici¬ 
pated. This calm, polite acceptance, therefore, he had 
scarcely bargained for. He stood motionless, rumi¬ 
nating. Then: 

“Pending further inquiries,” he continued courte¬ 
ously, “I should be glad, sir, if you will give me the 
necessary instructions so that I can detail a couple of 


268 THE FOREST OF FEAR 

men off to prepare the young lady’s cabin for the 
night.” 

The Chinese removed his cigarette. 

“The young lady, if the most excellent Mr. Hobson 
has no objections, will do me the extreme honour of 
sharing my own cabin,” he said imperturbably. 

“Well-” cried Hobson aghast. “I’ll--” 

What he purposed doing will, however, never be 
known. For, even as the words left his lips, there came 
a sharp sound of thumping and banging upon a small, 
curtained door situated in the opposite wall of the 
apartment, and which, Hobson knew, gave access to the 
yacht-owner’s luxurious sleeping chamber. 

Yen How rose swiftly, his lean face contorted with 
sudden anger. Hobson took an indeterminate step for¬ 
ward, fumbling mysteriously in his hip-pocket. 

The Chinaman rapped out some words in hurried, 
resonant Manchu; simultaneously turning his back upon 
the door. 

“Who’s in there?” demanded Hobson, as their eyes 
met. 

The Chinese did not reply. 

“Who—is—in—there?” repeated the First Officer, 
drawing his sprawled legs together so that his massive 
frame assumed its accustomed height. 

Yen How shrugged, and—startlingly vehement—the 
assault upon the door recommenced, punctuated this 
time by indisputable cries for help. 

Hobson’s temper snapped like a taut fiddle-string. 

“Open that door!” he thundered. 

Yen How tossed away his half-smoked cigarette and 
lit another. 

“Let me out! Let me out! Oh, for God’s sake open 
the door!” 

That cry—in the agonized voice of a woman—stung 
the Englishman to the last limits of endurance. 




HOBSON 


269 


“Stand back!” he shouted, whipping an evil little 
revolver from the pocket wherein he had previously been 
fumbling. “Stand back—or, by Heaven, I’ll shoot 
you!” 

Yen How stepped back. 

Striding to the door, the First Officer, with one 
gigantic gesture, swept the pretty beaded curtain to the 
floor, trampling it mercilessly underfoot. Then, after 
wrenching futilely at the polished oxy-silver handle, he 
placed the stumpy barrel of his weapon against the 
lock. 

“Keep clear!” he called. “I’m going to blow the lock 
to pieces. . . . Ready?” 

There was a deafening report, followed by a confused 
babel of voices; then, as the smoke cleared away, the 
Englishman placed his shoulder to the door and hurled 
it open: staggering ludicrously across the threshold, 
the smoking revolver still clutched tightly in his right 
hand. 

As he entered, Yen How, with a single bound, had 
reached a small lacquer secretaire , and, extracting from 
one of the Lilliputian drawers an ivory-handled pistol, 
leapt swiftly in pursuit. Indeed, the intrepid Hobson 
had scarcely grasped the amazing fact that this inner 
cabin contained, in addition to a half-naked girl, a 
Chinaman and the stranger—peculiarly conspicuous by 
reason of his curious green eyes—before the butt of the 
enraged Mandarin’s weapon had descended upon his 
skull like the blow of a sledge-hammer, and with a groan 
he had pitched, senseless, at their feet. 

“Bravo,” cried Leturc. “By the eight symbols of 
the Pafos-Kwa, that was marvellously done, illustrious 
Master!” 

He raised his eyes from the prostrate First Officer, 
smiling into the now impassive face of the Oriental who 
had dealt the coward’s blow. Then, suddenly, his smile 


270 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


faded: his loose jowl hung open: his green eyes widened 
in sudden numbing fear. 

Yen How, observing the change in the other’s ex¬ 
pression, turned his head. 

In the doorway, his revolver covering each one of 
them as they grouped themselves close about the trem¬ 
bling girl, stood Nettlefold. Whilst beyond, glimpsed 
through the adjoining state-room, they beheld the mo¬ 
tionless form of Andy MacWhirter mounting guard 
upon the deck ... in his hand a long and gleaming 
Chinese sword! 



XXVII 


DOOM 

“Night with her darkened caravans, 

Piled deep with silver and with myrrh. 

Drawn from the portals of the East, 

O Wanderer near!” 

It was almost with a sense of relief that Monte Kilgour 
took possession of the bare, friendly arm which Grace of 
God proffered him. For the entrance to the vast, dim 
subterranean chamber of the aged water-diviner was 
shadowed in profoundest gloom, and they had not as 
yet proceeded sufficiently far along the corridor to 
benefit by the curious green radiance emanating from 
its radium-permeated walls. 

“You—think he will see me?” jerked the man in 
hesitant Samoan. 

Grace of God nodded her dark head confidently. 

“Oh, yes . . . the Worship of the Evening Star is 
now over, and the musings of the All-Wise may, with 
safety, be interrupted.” 

“Good,” he said. 

They rounded a corner abruptly, and the sheen of 
the ore-laden cavern lit floor and roof and wall as 
though the trembling beams of some occult lanthom 
were shed before them, or the lime of a darkened theatre 
knifed the shadows of the stage from unseen wings. 

“You know,” said Kilgour, his voice hushed almost, 
it seemed, in reverence, “you know—this light—it*s 
infernally weird. . . .” 

His guide did not reply. Perhaps she dared not trust 
271 




272 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


her primitive and broken English where such momentous 
and stupendous words as these were involved. Kilgour’s 
voice ran on: 

“Talk about ‘atmosphere.’ There’s not a manager 
on Broadway lane to-day who would not give half his 
possessions and a diamond tie-pin to be able to repro¬ 
duce a set like this !” 

Grace of God smiled and nodded. It was quite ob¬ 
vious that the young white man was very wise and 
clever. She pressed his arm reassuringly. 

But even the inbred instincts of the young white 
man’s profession, as revealed in the remarks herewith 
recorded, had perforce to be sacrificed to weightier and 
more pressing problems. Indeed, had he been questioned 
upon the subject, Monte Kilgour would have admitted 
readily enough that he had been talking purely with the 
intention of preventing his mind from dwelling any more 
than was absolutely necessary upon the terrible things 
that had so recently happened to him. 

Now, as they entered the cavern of the great Pool, 
the apprehension of these Things returned to him with 
stunning force. He grew conscious that his limbs were 
shaking as with the ague. His breath came in painful, 
sibilant gasps, and a cold perspiration bedewed his high 
forehead—so that, oddly enough, he imagined himself 
a corpse from which all vestige of life had expired. 

Grace of God squeezed his fingers between the palms 
of her warm, moist hands. 

“I will summon the All-Wise,” she said—and was 
gone. 

“W-wait a moment,” stammered Kilgour to the va¬ 
cancy of air about him. Then, perceiving that he was 
alone, he sat down heavily on a boulder: staring with 
fascinated eyes at the shimmering, green surface of the 
lake set, like a giant emerald, in the centre of the car¬ 
pet of powdered sand. 


DOOM 273 

“God help me!” he muttered. “O God—help us 
every one!” 

And in that moment of human anguish pummelling 
with closed fists upon the implacable door of the Un¬ 
known, came the Answer to human prayer. . . . 

The sullen beating of a pagan drum! 

And then- 

“0 Gracious Spirit of the void; O most compassionate 
one, stoopmg from thy throne in the eternal heaven 
thou hast the sound of my pleading wafted to thine 
abode—where Petuao, the Morning Star, is: where the 
suns set not, nor moons waw or wane; and thou hast 
graciously listened to the message of my voice . . . 
and thou answerest. Lo! . . . 

“I see a strange ship tossing on a familiar sea. A 
ship whereon all is chaos and disruption, and unity and 
concord no longer prevail. Many things, of great mo¬ 
ment, have transpired on board the vessel of my vision 
since the blessed cloak of darkness fell across the bosom 
of land and sea, and the sounds of the world ceased. 

“I see a woman, young and fair to look upon. A 
woman greatly to be desired . . . and one, of sinister 
mien, who desireth her. But there are others, too , 
flitting across the background of my vision. Gracious 
Spirit. Those who would defend her. But I fear me 
that they who be for her be but a handful compared to 
them who be against her! And I foresee much blood¬ 
shed and death before she be rescued from the toils of 
the Fiend who thus menaces her! Strange contrivances 
are possessed by those who would spill their blood in 
order that she might live, but even these have as yet 
availed them nothing. In the few brief hours. Time 
will have stolen her away. . . . 

“The vision fades; the waters grow dark; I can no 
longer see with mine eyes. But woe will come to all 



274 THE FOREST OF FEAR 

who work iniquity , even as it is mscrihed on the tombs 
of those who reject the gods of the All-Wise , and scorn 
his teaching!” 


It was many minutes before Grace of God, acting the 
part of interpreter, could cajole a single nod of compre¬ 
hension from the young man who sat gazing dumbly 
into her face from the peak of a small, elevated boulder, 
grey with lichen and moss. Then: 

“Ask him whether anything can be done to save her,” 
commanded Kilgour. 

The bent, distorted creature crouched against the 
parapet of the lake turned slowly, and regarded the girl 
with red, blood-heavy eyes. 

Grace of God repeated her question dutifully. 

With a strange ejaculation—almost like the whine of 
a tortured animal—the Seer peered eagerly into the 
flickering shadows surging, like wind-driven clouds, 
across the gently heaving surface of the Pool. . . . 
And the invisible clocks of Life ticked the seconds away 
into infinity. 

At length: 

“He says,” translated the Polynesian maiden slowly, 
“that the Spirit of the Waters has drawn a veil over 
his dominion and there is nothing to be seen save driving 
rain and a rising tempest-” 

“Damn the Spirit of the Waters!” cried Kilgour 
frenziedly. “Ask him what we are to do? Ask him 
how we are to rescue the maiden who is held captive 
upon the vessel of his vision! Ask him—plead with 
him! Tell him I love her: that she is mine! Do you 
hear ? Mine!” 

“I hear,” said Grace of God, considerably startled. 

“Tell him,” went on the half-crazed man, “that I 
have walked across the hills without food in order to 
obtain his advice! Tell him-” 




DOOM 


275 


Obediently, Grace of God spoke. 

What she said—whether, indeed, she repeated any 
of his frenzied statements at all—Kilgour was never 
able to ascertain. For, turning swiftly towards him, 
the girl—demurely folding her brown hands upon the 
breast of the single vivid sarong which clothed her lithe 
young body—translated the water-diviner’s reply: 

“He says that it is not within the power of any hu¬ 
man being to arrest the progress of Destiny, and he can 
only peer within the glassy surface of the lake and in¬ 
terpret the visions he discerns there. . . . But, for 
your comfort, he would counsel you to return immedi¬ 
ately whence you have come. For shortly the waters 
of the earth and the dry land thereof shall be shaken 
exceedingly, as Oro —War-lord of Thunder and Wind 
—sallies forth upon a journey across the world. . . .” 

Kilgour glowered at the aged Seer in evident disdain. 

“Nonsense!” he retorted shortly. “Tell him he’s a 
consummate fraud, and that I do not believe a single 
word he says!” 

It was the foolish, petulant outburst of a spoilt child, 
who, failing to obtain the thing it desires, vents its 
spleen in gibe and insolent abuse. But possibly Grace 
of God realized that, for once, this white man could be 
excused for losing his temper; for, be that as it may, 
she again took protective possession of his arm and—as 
the loathsome, decrepit figure of Ra shambled away into 
the darkness from whence it had emerged on their ar¬ 
rival—guided him gently to the mouth of the cavern. 

Arrived there, he stood a moment in thought; then 
once again clasping the friendly arm of the native girl, 
he passed on into the tranquil moon-dusk of the clear¬ 
ing in front of the temple. And here, for the first time, 
he perceived how close and stifling the night-air was. 
Within the cavern, he had deemed the excessive heat due 
to insufficient ventilation . . . outside, no doubt, the 




276 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


cool Pacific vespers would dispel this leaden oppression, 
this respiration-quickening sense of intolerable heat. 

But it was not so. 

The heat lay in waves upon the island, making the 
frosty pallor of the moon a mockery and a sham. The 
dried leaves crackled ominously underfoot, and a stench 
of rottenness and decay was everywhere. 

“Looks rather as though the old johnny were right 
about a storm brewing,” he said to Grace of God, who 
was audibly panting at his side. “Is it always like this 
before the rains?” 

She shook her head, laying a damp hand on his own. 
Beads of sweat were in her hair. 

“No, I never remember it like this before, white 
man,” she said. 

Kilgour raised his head, as though to sense some soli¬ 
tary breath of wind in all this vacuum that was the 
world, and: 

“I would give a good deal to be back at the par¬ 
sonage,” he said, half to himself. “God help poor Mrs. 
Hardie and the Pastor if we have a really severe storm 
to contend with on the top of all our other troubles.” 

The thought of Mrs. Hardie set him pondering upon 
the utter ineffectiveness of his recent mission to the 
cavern of Ra. Apart from the fact that, assuming some 
germ of verity attached to the supposed revelations, he 
now definitely knew Vanda to be in the clutches of Yen 
How—on board the Mandarin’s vessel, in fact—he had 
learnt absolutely nothing to warrant the journey he had 
that night made into the interior of Charteris. Ah, 
well-—it was, all the same, comforting to know that he 
had done his utmost to appease the almost demented 
little woman he had left behind him in the village yon¬ 
der down by the coast. For was it not Mrs. Hardie 
herself who—fearful lest her husband should overhear 
—had whisperingly suggested to him that mayhap con- 




DOOM 


277 


solation, and possibly succour, might be derived from 
a visit to the native Seer who dwelt in the forested heart 
of the island, over and beyond the hills? 

With a faint, ironical smile, he considered the con¬ 
solatory value of a storm in relation to their present 
overwhelming difficulties. Then, again glancing up at 
the darkening sky, across which a thousand argosies 
of silver ships serenely sailed, he became aware of that 
for which he had previously sought in vain— wind: 

... A mere rustle—faint: ominous—stirred through 
parched undergrowth, and set the pandanus leaves 
a-shiver. 

He laughed, more with a desire to cheer the girl than 
from any access of humour. 

“One would almost imagine Khamsin were coming,” 
he said huskily. “Do you know what Khamsin is? 
No, of course you do not. It is the Efreet Wind of old 
Egypt!” 

A cloud of dust and sand, commingled, swirled up 
into his face almost blinding him. . . . 

* * * # * 

And in the early hours of the following morning the 
Great Cyclone of 19— broke in all its insensate fury 
upon the Island world. It swept down from the North, 
by way of Phoenix and the Union Group: but subse¬ 
quent investigations have proved that it did not attain 
its full malignancy until the awful screeching outer rim 
of it embraced Charteris, and the numerous smaller 
islands in the latter’s vicinity. Then, to the crashing 
thunder of Apocalyptic doom, it fled by: trailing death 
and destruction and untold ruin in its wake; so that, to 
this day, the Polynesians pray to their gods that never 
again will they lash them with the whirling terror of 
those few eventful hours during which existence became 



278 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


one hideous nightmare, and oblivion a blessed Nirvana 
of hitherto undreamed delight! 

Kilgour had barely returned to the Administrator’s 
bungalow near the shore before the news of its approach 
had been drummed from end to end of the island. In¬ 
deed, long signal-canoes had dauntlessly ventured be¬ 
yond the reef to send forth their awful throbbing mes¬ 
sage upon the stifling winds of heaven, so that, in ac¬ 
cordance with age-old custom, all the inhabitants of 
neighbouring islands and atolls should, if possible, have 
time to prepare for the Nemesis which might at any 
moment overtake them. 

And then, you know, it came. 

In an instant—in the twinkling of an eye—the village 
was laid waste and the beach piled high with the twisted 
and blackened bodies of the slain. 

The Mission House, in which Pastor Hardie had 
gathered perhaps a courageous dozen of his flock, was 
lifted—as though by a giant finger and thumb—clean 
from the ground, and sent rocketing skyward to fall a 
few moments later—with devastating effect—upon the 
Lepmann Store, wherein poor Lee Wong tossed and 
moaned upon a tiny camp-bed, helpless in the throes of 
delirium. 

Hardie himself was caught up by the blast and borne, 
spinning like a feather, towards an enormous palm 
which, though at times bent almost flat, somehow sur¬ 
vived the disaster. Against its trunk his brains were 
spilt in awful prodigality . . . whilst later, with 
tragic irony, the storm lashed the green and gold 
Communion-cloth about his battered body. 

With the collapse of the Mission, Mrs. Hardie, who, 
with Kilgour, Doris Lepmann and young Remy, had 
been crouching on one of the corner benches, found 
herself inextricably involved with the portable wooden 
pulpit. This fact, it transpired, was the ultimate 





DOOM 


279 


means of her salvation. For the pulpit, being ex¬ 
cessively heavy, was by no means an easy prey to the 
rampant onslaught of the storm. True, it rolled 
several hundred yards with the insensible woman 
jammed inside it by the awful pressure of the wind; but 
eventually it fell into the dry bed of a rivulet and re¬ 
sisted all further efforts at dislodgment. There, to¬ 
wards evening of the next day, when the cyclone had 
passed and spent itself at sea, they found her—gibber¬ 
ing to herself and literally streaming with blood. 

With Doris Lepmann, Fate was less kind—or kinder: 
as you care to look at it. She was whirled straight 
into the arms of young Remy, to whom on the previous 
day she had—in a fit of pique—become engaged. For 
an hour they contrived to fight Death in the branches 
of a pandanus-tree; and but for the fact that a writh¬ 
ing scimitar of lightning elected to blast it and them 
into Eternity, they would probably have succeeded. 

Noon discovered them locked together beneath a heap 
of flame-scorched leaves and branches. . . . 

So it went on. 

All through the ebon blackness of the hours the wind 
swept the world: the thunder crackled and bellowed: the 
lightning jagged the firmament. And, about eight or 
nine in the morning, came the earth-shock. Seismo¬ 
graphs and scientific instruments throughout the length 
and breadth of the Southern Hemisphere recorded it 
upon their sensitive dials and tiny charts; and men 
marvelled, and speculated as to what could have hap¬ 
pened, and whether any really serious calamity had 
taken place. Actually, I am told, the shock was no¬ 
ticed particularly in Upolu, Fiji, the Tonga Islands 
and the Society Group. Several jerry houses in Apia 
disgorged their window-panes. An aged and choleric 
member of the Cercle Militaire at Tahiti swears that a 
vase of orange-blossom removed itself from the centre 


280 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


of a certain table to the floor; whilst a well-known 
European anthropologist declares that a thirty-foot 
high stone idol situated on Rapa collapsed ignomin- 
iously to earth at a period of time approximately 
coincidental with the supposed movement of the earth’s 
crust. 

As a matter of fact, what really did occur was simply 
this: The population of Charteris Island was reduced, 
on the most generous estimate, by eighty per cent.; and 
roughly two-thirds of the island collapsed utterly and 
sank beneath the Pacific. Why the remaining third 
decided to grace this world of love and beauty a little 
longer no man can tell. But I take it that there was a 
Providence—hooded, enigmatic and inscrutable, if you 
will—flitting about somewhere back-stage . . . be¬ 
cause, you see, on that little remaining third all the 
people who have played any prominent part in this 
drama were clustered! 

How Kilgour himself escaped annihilation is still 
something of a mystery to everyone—excepting, per¬ 
haps, old Andrew MacWhirter. For Andrew Mac- 
Whirter it was who beheld him trundling like an empty 
rum-keg before the gale, towards the beach: and An¬ 
drew MacWhirter’s gnarled hands were the ones that 
snatched him back from the seething cauldron of the 
lagoon—wherein tossed arms and legs and heads: 
houses, trees, planks and boats and pigs in one broiling, 
gory froth of spume and blood. 


XXVIII 


THE GHOST SHIP 

Were it possible for you, the reader, to have been af¬ 
forded a bird’s-eye view of that portion of the Pacific 
enclosed between latitude-lines 10° and 20°, a little 
after noon on the day of the Great Cyclone—say from 
an observation balloon or kite, you would, without 
doubt, have witnessed many strange sights. And not 
the least strange, perhaps, of the many surprising and 
wonderful things you would in all probability have 
glimpsed would have been a battered derelict drifting 
aimlessly from trough to trough of the still-heaving 
ocean. A small, dismasted vessel, practically devoid of 
all upper-structure: boatless, rudderless, with a dan¬ 
gerous list to port and an ominous depression at the 
bow. A shuddering hulk, lurching drunkenly from 
wave-crest to wave-crest: a pitiful mockery of the 
what-might-have-been: a grotesque innuendo of what- 
was-to-come! 

At first sight, you would have dubbed her both dere¬ 
lict and deserted. Tangled cordage and broken davits 
testified not only to wind and tempest and high seas, but 
also to rushed boats and unchecked panic. A splotch 
of blood, too, you would have glimpsed, gleaming 
moistly here and there . . . and huddled away beside 
a windlass a dead body or two clad in tom blue smocks. 

But she was not deserted. Had you, at the same 
time, been gifted with a sight capable of disintegrating 
intervening matter and could consequently have pierced 
the roof of the one surviving deck-structure—the Cap- 
281 


282 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


tain’s cabin—you would have beheld, maybe, the 
strangest and most wonderful sight of all. 

For—within that self-same deck-structure—four 
amazingly attired individuals were avidly devouring 
the remnants of three tinned tongues, a number of vast 
hunks of bread and a plateful of ship’s biscuits. Whilst, 
in opposite corners of the cabin, two further indi¬ 
viduals—each securely bound to their respective seats 
with ropes, and efficiently gagged—glowered diagonally 
at the diners and squirmed ineffectually at intervals 
of about five minutes. 

Once, after an unusually violent attack of this 
squirming, the eldest of the three men surrounding the 
table threw a knob of bread deftly into the face of 
each prisoner. 

“Keep still, you fools!” he shouted irately. “Don’t 
you realize we’ve a couple of loaded guns here? You 
blamed idiots!” 

“Good shot that,” commented one of the other diners. 
“Or ought one to say ‘shoot,’ seeing that you let-fire 
with both hands ?” 

“Shut up, Sparks,” responded the marksman, flush¬ 
ing slightly. “Pass Miss Hardie some more bread.” 

The lady in question shook her fair head. 

“Thank you, Mr. President, I’ve had quite sufficient.” 

Felix Hobson, irritatingly conscious that his own 
vulgar, ravening hunger was as yet unappeased, blushed 
again. 

“That’s all right, then. Now I really think we’d bet¬ 
ter review the situation. The poor old Emperor of 
Nanking won’t reign very much longer, I’m thinking.” 

“The Emperor of Nanking said Nettlefold “is all 
but done in. There’s no time for thinking—she may 
founder at any moment, and that is the plain, unvar¬ 
nished truth.” 

“I don’t agree,” returned Hobson, a shade curtly. 


THE GHOST SHIP 


283 


“I admit that she is permanently ‘done in’—there’s no 
doubt whatever about that. But if the sea continues 
to go down she’ll float a good many hours longer in 
my opinion. What do you say, Andy?” 

The A.B. withdrew a cube of bread from his lips. 

“Engine-room’s flooded,” he replied; and replaced 
the cube. 

“What about your idea of a raft, Felix?” queried 
Nettlefold. 

“How yer goin’ ter launch it?” interposed the A.B. 
“I reckon a tip either way would about upset the apple¬ 
cart. Besides, what about those blinkin’ Yahoos over 
there. D’yer think we can manage to dump them 
aboard, anyway?” 

“Why not leave them to seek a watery grave?” 
grinned Nettlefold. “I might manage to squeeze out 
one teeny weeny tear for them!” 

“No,” said Hobson, rising from the table. “The 
White House shall deal with these gentlemen. In the 
meantime, it’s our business to—er—keep one benignant 
and brotherly eye upon them. And, personally, I think 
we might manage that raft, unless-” 

He stopped abruptly, and stared at his companions. 

Upon the partially-closed door of the cabin some¬ 
one—or something—had rapped peremptorily. 

“ Tap-tap-tap-tap .” 

“Good Lord!” ejaculated Nettlefold, stepping back¬ 
ward so suddenly that he tripped over a piece of carpet¬ 
ing and over-balanced with a muffled thud. 

Hobson, drawing his revolver, sprang to his feet. 

“Come in!” 

The door swung swiftly inward, and the Unknown 
entered. 

“My God!” said Hobson, and raised his revolver. 

“Don’t shoot! Mon Dieu —don’t shoot!” cried one 
of the rope-bound prisoners, with such violent exhala- 



284 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


tion of breath that his gag slipped and the words tum¬ 
bled from his lips in a harsh scream. 46 Sapristi !— He 
is risen from the dead!” 

“Good Lord! Who is?” cried Nettlefold ungram¬ 
matically, scrambling to his feet. 

The bound Frenchman writhed in his chair. 

“He lives! He lives!” he shrilled. “ Mon Diew . . . 
he has pursued me from the grave! I know. I know. 
... He rose last night from the depths to persecute 
me! He came on the wings of the wind before the 
storm! A dead man on a ship of death! A Ghost on a 
vessel peopled with ghosts! Ha! Ha! Fools . . . Fools 
. . . Footer 

He burst into peal after peal of demoniacal laughter: 
his green eyes starting from his head: his lips spattered 
with twin lines of foam. 

The Apparition took a step forward. 

“That man is mad,” he said harshly. “Put your 
revolver down. I am the Administrator of Charteris, 
and I arrest these two”—indicating the now obviously 
insane Leturc and his companion—“on a charge of 
feloniously abducting an American citizen. Now, please 
tell me quickly who and what you are, and the name of 

your vessel-” he put a hand to his throat. “But— 

first—give me some brandy, for I am—ill. . . .” 

The girl, who up to that moment had watched the 
progress of this extraordinary drama with wide, fear- 
dark eyes, now sprang forward—arms outstretched. 

“Why, Howard—Howard— Howard /” she cried. 
“Don’t you know me? Vanda—little Vanda?” 

He swayed towards her, still clutching convulsively at 
his throat. 

“Vanda?” he echoed stupidly. u Yow are not Vanda! 
Vanda wore a p-party-frock. . . . God! . . . Bring 
me the drink. I tell you I’m dying!” 

With a cry, the girl flung her arms about him. 



THE GHOST SHIP 285 

“Howard! Howard! What has happened? How 
have you come here? Where is Lilian?” 

“Brandy . . .” he choked, and toppled forward just 
as Hobson held the glass to his lips. 

“It’s his heart,” said Hobson. “Look at his cheeks 
—they’re blue. And his finger-nails—black. Who is 
he? Do you know him, miss?” 

“Know him?” repeated Vanda. “Why—he’s the 
Governor of Charteris. He—he’s come to rescue me!” 

Hobson swore, violently and vividly: and with that 
infinite variation and those exquisite inflections of light 
and shade characteristic of the born artiste. 

“And we thought he was a Spirit!” he cried. “A 
Ghost, an Efreet —a damned psychic Djirni!” 

“Axin’ yer pardon, Chief,” put in a quiet voice, 
which on investigation proved to emanate from the grim 
lips of the A.B., “but there’s a young woman outside 
on deck. ... I think she’s dead.” 

The truly surprising thing about life is that when 
one is most prone to assume the worst, the best fre¬ 
quently happens. Beaumont did not die—though it 
was later discovered that he had contracted slight 
valvular disease of the heart by the magnitude of his 
sufferings and the almost superhuman physical effort 
of the last three days. 

Nor on Lilian Hardie either did the Hooded Phantom 
think fit to lay its skeleton hand. For after an hour’s 
strenuous and untiring exertion on the part of Vanda 
and Nettlefold, she awoke from the deep stupor into 
which she had fallen, with a brain rendered almost 
crystal-clear by the ravages of hardship and weakness. 

“Where is Howard?” she said: and endeavoured to 
raise herself upon her couch. 

Vanda covered the burning, fevered hands with her 


own. 


286 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


“Hush, dear. Lie down again. He is here, sleeping: 
for he is very tired.” 

“He lives?” queried the faint voice, as the younger 
girl proffered a tumbler of water. 

“Yes, dear. He is quite, quite safe.” 

“Where are we?” 

“On board a ship. We shall be sailing home very 
soon. Try and sleep now, dear. You are utterly ex¬ 
hausted.” 

“Who are you?” asked the faint voice, yet more 
faintly still. 

“Vanda—little Vanda. Your sister, dear.” 

“Has . . . Then has Howard found you . . . after 
all?” 

“Yes. He has found me.” 

“Where- Is Leturc on this ship, too? You 

know who I mean . . . Jacques Leturc, the French¬ 
man. The man who pretended he loved me?” 

Vanda brushed the burning forehead with her lips. 
Her sister—it was patently evident—was growing 
delirious. 

“Yes, Lilian dear, he is on this ship, too. He—I 
think he has lost his reason. You know we always 
thought he was a little strange, you and I. Do you 
remember ?” 

“It is cocaine,” responded Lilian drowsily. “He is 
a drug fiend, you know. Opium—morphia—chlorine— 
cocaine- Oh, I am so sleepy, Vanda.” 

A hand fell lightly upon the girl’s shoulder. Raising 
her eyes, she beheld Hobson: his face white and stern 
in the dim light of the cabin. 

“Miss Hardie, I want a word with you. Can you 
spare a moment?” 

“Yes. What is it? Why do you look like that?” 

“The ship is sinking,” he said quietly. “There 
wouldn’t be time to make a raft, and we have no boats. 




THE GHOST SHIP 287 

Come out on deck; we must decide what to do, and 
quickly, too.” 

Emerging into the now mellowing glare of the late 
afternoon sun, they found the other men speaking 
in whispers beneath the battered stanchions of the 
wrecked bridge. 

“It’s no use, MacWhirter, she’ll not last another 
hour.” 

Nettlefold turned to the girl. 

“I have been trying to get the apparatus going in the 
hope of broadcasting a last 4 C.Q.D.’ We rigged up a 
sort of aerial, but the batteries are run down. I think 
we’d all better be lashed to spars and then we’ll rope 
ourselves loosely together. Sa}^ ten feet of hawser 
apart. Mass formation, you know, might give us a 
sporting chance of avoiding the killer-sharks. On 
our own, of course, we should be dead in five minutes. 
Then there are three life-belts left, thanks to these 
damned Chinese devils. One each for you and your 
sister, Miss Hardie, and one for Mr. Beaumont. Do 
you all agree ?” 

“Yes,” assented a muted chorus ; and: 

“What about the Chink and the other poor brute?” 
continued Nettlefold, as though the thought had only 
just occurred to him. 

“They’ll have to be left on board—unless we make 
a very small raft”—his eyes raked the desolate expanse 
of deck. “We might brace some planks round one of 
these self-buoyant seats and bind ’em on to them. Per¬ 
haps, too, we’d better do the same for your sister, Miss 
Hardie, and Mr. Beaumont. We don’t want to expose 
them to the elements any more than is absolutely nec¬ 
essary, after all they’ve gone through, eh?” 

“Hear, hear,” agreed Hobson, and suddenly and un¬ 
expectedly clapped the preoccupied Nettlefold on the 
back. 


288 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


“What are you doing now?” demanded that indi¬ 
vidual roughly, for his nerves were badly frayed by the 
almost overwhelming burden of his joint responsibilities. 

“Look here,” cried Hobson. “Has it never occurred 
to any single one of us to inquire how that fellow Beau¬ 
mont and the girl got here at allf Strewth! What a 
consummate lot of addle-pates!” 

“What d’ye mean?” snapped MacWhirter. 

“I mean-—confound it all, can’t you see what I 
mean?” 

“A boat?” shouted Nettlefold. “You mean they 
must have come in a boat?” 

Hobson shrugged his broad shoulders. 

“How else? Unless Leturc was right, and the fellow 
is a blessed Efreet , or whatever they call them! In any 
case, that doesn’t explain the presence of the lady, 
does it?” 

“By Jove!” cried Nettlefold excitedly. “You’re 
right, Felix. Port your helm, boys, she may be drifting 
alongside even now!” 

There ensued a rush to the leeward side of the ship. 
A concerted movement which caused the keeling deck to 
increase slightly the precarious angle which it already 
made with the surface of the water. 

But no boat was to be seen. Only the dark, oily sur¬ 
face of the storm-ruffled sea. This time they returned 
more warily to their vantage-point beneath the bridge— 
fearful lest that sloping deck should curve away be¬ 
neath their feet and plunge them all into the shark- 
infested Pacific without so much as a chance to offer 
up a prayer that their lives should, even in that dire 
calamity, be spared. 

“We’re done,” announced Hobson. “Fall-to as fast 
as the devil, and make the rafts. I’ll go below and 
explore the carpenter’s shop for nails. And—even if 
you value your mortal bodies no more than the throw 


THE GHOST SHIP 


289 


of a dice—don’t, whatever you do, tip her about. Re¬ 
member there are women aboard!” 

He disappeared down the companion, still bawling 
instructions and advice, as, wearily, Vanda retraced her 
steps to the cabin, wherein Lilian and her lover—both 
apparently oblivious to this new and terrible danger 
overshadowing the doomed yacht and her little crew— 
slept the deep sleep of utter physical and mental 
exhaustion. 

She was just about to seat herself on one of the many 
broken, coloured divans which had, only two brief days 
ago, so delighted the voluptuous mind of their Chinese 
owner, when the hot, oppressive silence of the afternoon 
was dramatically rent in twain! 

“Boom! . . 

Not knowing what new disaster threatened them, and 
trembling so violently that her limbs almost refused to 
obey the promptings of her tortured brain, she stag¬ 
gered to the door and lurched out once more upon that 
terrible, keeling deck—groping blindly for support, 
and endeavouring to shade her eyes with one tiny, 
palsied hand. 

Not very far away, and drawing nearer and ever 
nearer as she gazed, was- 

“The Republic! The Republic!” bawled Nettlefold, 
miraculously emerging from behind a pile of debris 
which had once been the chart-house, and placing a 
strong and infinitely protective arm about her shoul¬ 
ders. “We’re saved, Miss Hardie! Thank God, we’re 
saved!” 

And at sight of that long, sinister shape slipping so 
soundlessly towards them—with the dense smoke trail¬ 
ing, plume like, from her squat, square stacks: with her 
fighting tops, turrets and conning towers looming black 
and grim against the crimson fire of the Western sky: 
and with her 12- and 6-inch guns laid in readiness to 




290 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


hurl over ten thousand pounds of metal into the face 
of any who dared gainsay or obstruct her progress— 
Vanda Hardie fell upon her knees and prayed to her 
God as she had never in all her young life prayed before. 
Whilst behind her, very reverently, Frederick James 
Nettlefold, of the s.s. Emperor of Nankmg, removed his 
battered, peaked cap. 


XXIX 


GREAT BEAUMONT 

So, whilst on the deck of the shuddering hulk that once 
had been as beautiful and resplendent a little vessel as 
ever slid from a shipbuilder’s slipway, Vanda, Nettle¬ 
fold, and Hobson raised thanks to a beneficent Provi¬ 
dence for their eleventh-hour salvation, Howard Beau¬ 
mont stirred restlessly in the deep, cushioned chair 
whereon he sprawled in the luxurious cabin that, of 
all her once magnificent equipment, alone remained 
to testify to the departed glory of the Emperor of 
Nanking . 

Dizzily, he raised a hand to his eyes as though he 
essayed to wipe from before them the dancing screen 
of lights and shadows ravening hunger and almost un¬ 
believable suffering had conjured into being to further 
torment and agonize his brain. 

And, as the grotesque phantasmagoria, the painted 
nightmares of incipient delirium, commenced, beneath 
the sheer bludgeoning of his indomitable will, to fade, 
he rose unsteadily to his feet. 

A sharp, excruciating pain—the meaning of which 
he, fortunately, did not then comprehend—jabbed his 
left breast an instant, and passed. . . . Clutching to 
the chair with one hand, he drew himself erect and took 
stock of the diminutive, disarranged apartment. 

Before him, securely bound and re-gagged by the 
cautious Hobson, there sat—ridiculous upon two tall, 
carven chairs—the Mandarin Yen How and Jacques 
Leturc: their eyes—ebon and green—glaring defiance 
291 


292 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


at the gaunt, unshaven man who, even as they looked at 
him, had commenced to make his way stealthily towards 
them. From without, making no impression upon his 
benumbed faculties, there drifted to his ears the exultant 
cry of Frederick James Nettlefold, as he drew Vanda’s 
attention to that sinister grey shape moving at what 
seemed an incredible speed towards the derelict on 
whose see-saw planking the girl strove to maintain a 
footing. No impression—for the mind of Howard 
Beaumont, as he made his halting progress across the 
cabin, was obsessed by one paramount and overwhelm¬ 
ing determination. And had the derelict elected, in that 
very instant, to plunge bow first into the hungry waters 
of the Pacific, Beaumont would have plunged with her, 
unmoved, to his death, striving to achieve that grim 
and solitary purpose he had in mind! 

From his pocket he extracted—with great difficulty, 
for he was almost as weak as a babe—a clasp-knife, 
which of all his possessions he alone had managed to re¬ 
trieve from the whirling arms of the cyclone. Then, ap¬ 
proaching Leturc, whose eyes were riveted upon his face 
as though their owner were the victim of some strange, 
hypnotic hallucination, he stooped and released from 
the cruel, rasping cords that bound it the Frenchman’s 
right hand . . . just sufficiently to enable him to move 
the wrist without undue effort, and no more. . . . 

Then, harshly, Beaumont addressed him: 

“I shall give you paper and a pencil. When I ask 
you questions, write the answer upon the paper. . . . 
Sign the paper. . . 

He lurched, and would have fallen but for the sup¬ 
port offered by an adjacent filing-cabinet. Then— 
more slowly now, for with every new exertion his 
strength waned as with the flow of blood from a severed 
artery—he extracted from that same capacious pocket 
a small stub of pencil; whilst, stooping, he retrieved 


GREAT BEAUMONT 


293 


from the floor of the cabin a sheet of paper blown from 
a burst packet of foolscap, duplicating material and 
stationery: part contents of the Mandarin’s shattered 
secretaire . 

“Now,” he whispered, “ write —or as I live I shall 
knife you dead. . . 

When, less than fifteen minutes later, Hobson, accom¬ 
panied by young MacWhirter, burst into the cabin to 
convey its occupants on deck, they found him stretched 
senseless at the now gibbering Frenchman’s feet . . . 
in one tight-clenched hand a crumpled sheet of paper. 

And so astonished were they that they entirely failed 
to notice a powerful clasp-knife lying upon the carpet a 
foot or so from the divan whereon Lilian Hardie lay 
motionless and rigid in stupor—a faint smile on her 
ashen lips. 




XXX 


THE BREAKING OF THE WEB 

The young Lieutenant folded his arms across the 
bright buttoned expanse of drill uniform which was his 
chest, and stared the four strangely assorted indi¬ 
viduals who unitedly constituted the crew of the derelict 
yacht up and down until they commenced to fidget un¬ 
easily beneath the long and piercing scrutiny. Then 
he addressed himself brusquely to Hobson. 

“Where is the Captain?” 

“I am the Captain,” retorted Hobson, lighting a 
cigarette. 

The Lieutenant glared at him aggressively. 

“Then where is the First Officer? I suppose there is 
a First Officer?” 

“I am the First Officer,” smiled Hobson equably. 

“And I suppose you darn well own this crazy junk, as 
well?” pursued the Lieutenant, with considerable heat 
■—for he felt vaguely and disturbingly conscious that 
this imperturbable Englishman was getting the better 
of him. 66 And are the wireless man, and the mate, 
and -” 

“You’re wrong there,” Hobson intervened soothingly. 
“The owner of this yacht is at present enjoying the 
unique experience of being roped to a chair in the Cap¬ 
tain’s cabin. At least he was five minutes ago. And 
that”—indicating Nettlefold—“is the wireless man. 
And do you realize that the vessel on which you stand 
may founder at any moment? She’s flooded to the coal- 
bunkers !” 


294 



THE BREAKING OF THE WEB 


295 


“You don’t say so?” said the Lieutenant, askance. 
“Well, how the dickens did you manage to survive the 
typhoon, eh?” 

“Ah,” laughed Hobson, “that is where we come in. 
Might I inquire how the dickens you managed to shear 
a propeller and, incidentally, land us in this—er—kettle 
of fish?” 

“We struck a derelict just after replying to your 
call. Steaming full speed, too. I’ll say”—with a bel¬ 
ligerent glance at the faces of the little group sur¬ 
rounding him—“it was some derelict. And our pro¬ 
pellers of manganese bronze—what ?—require some 
drive to shear that!” 

“Um,” assented Hobson noncommittally. This cock- 
sure and over-developed young American annoyed him 
excessively. 

“The devil of the whole thing was,” continued the 
Lieutenant with fervour, “that we nearly repeated the 
giddy performance an hour or two before dawn—when 
the worst of the cyclone was over!” 

“Another derelict ?” 

“Yep. A schooner—dismasted, fo’castle and poop 
gone, bows and gripe staved . . . only keeping afloat, 
I reckon, because she was in her second childhood and 
the insuree prayed Heaven she’d go to the bottom every 
blame voyage. Her deck had been swept clean as a 
base-ball court!” 

Vanda stepped clear of Nettlefold’s protective arm. 

“What was her name?” she asked, her voice tense 
with suppressed excitement. “Were you able to read 
it?” 

The Lieutenant turned to her: his very vivid blue 
eyes opening very wide. Evidently, absorbed in his 
cross-examination of Hobson, she had escaped his 
notice. 

“Say!” he cried. “Ain’t you jest stepped straight 


296 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


from Camel Land? Where’d you purchase those 
pyjamas, honey?” 

The girl coloured painfully; though to herself she 
admitted that the Lieutenant had just cause for aston¬ 
ishment. For she was still clad in the vivid-hued sleep¬ 
ing garment Yen How had insisted she should wear; 
though, to it, she had now added various other articles 
of female clothing subsequently discovered in the Man¬ 
darin’s cabin. Thus arrayed, she looked for all the 
world as though she ought—if everyone had their rights 
—to be pacing the deck of some majestic, old-time 
Trireme, laden with peacocks, sandal-wood and purple 
of Tyre. . . . Drawing herself up with a curious, 
rather pathetic dignity, she repeated her question. 

The Lieutenant, to his credit, blushed. 

“Name? Let me see, now. Yes—I guess we did 
catch a close-up of that. We turned the searchlight 
on her. What was it? Rosa? Rlioda?” 

Vanda nodded mutely, she had gone very pale. 

The Lieutenant turned again to Hobson. 

“Guess you’ll tell the story to the Chief, eh? We’d 
better hustle some, too. I can’t take you all together. 
Who’s going to make up the first little home party?” 

“In the cabin yonder,” said Hobson, “there is a lady, 
very seriously ill, I am afraid; and this poor fellow we 
have just carried on deck is the Administrator of Char- 
teris Island—Howard Beaumont. I suppose I ought to 
have told you that before, but, as a matter of fact, I 
quite overlooked their existence. You’d better take 
them along, and Miss Hardie here, too. We men will 
mount guard on the prisoners while you’re away-” 

He broke off short as a dull boom echoed sullenly 
across the waste of ocean, and a column of water many 
feet high shot upwards, perhaps a mile astern of the 
cruiser. 

“The Old Man’s getting impatient,” grinned the 






THE BREAKING OF THE WEB 297 

Lieutenant. “Great habit of his—firing dud shells all 
over the place when he wants somebody to get a move 
on!” 

“Apparently,” said Hobson. 

The cruiser’s long-boat had just cleared the grey, 
forbidding sides of her parent vessel on her return 
journey to the now badly-plunging derelict, when Hob¬ 
son—closely observing her progress through a pair 
of binoculars—was struck by a sudden, paralyzing 
thought. 

He span round to where Nettlefold and the A.B. 
stood beside the rail eagerly watching the strip of 
water which divided them from safety slowly grow nar¬ 
rower and narrower as the Lieutenant’s craft ap¬ 
proached. 

“By Jove!” he cried. “We’d better haul those 
johnnies on deck! Heaven knows what mischief they 
may be up to whilst we’re fooling our time away here!” 

They looked at each other in dismay; then, con¬ 
cernedly, rushed pell-mell up the tiny companion to¬ 
wards the small, square apartment which was the cabin. 

The room was empty: whilst on the floor lay the 
hacked serpent-like remnants of a hawser’s length of 
stout ship’s roping. 

If a visible and tangible Death had triumphantly 
confronted them, they could not have experienced 
greater feelings of alarm. 

Hobson’s teeth chattered audibly. 

“The Hold,” he stammered. “There’s ten tons of 
dynamite m the Hold! My God! What fools we have 
been!” 

MacWhirter alone kept his head in that awful mo¬ 
ment of crisis. 

“The Hold is flooded,” he said. “The dynamite 
would not explode. . . .” 



298 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


“But the barrels are oil-sheeted,” added Nettlefold. 
“They—they-” 

His voice trailed off ineffectually. In blank despair 
they looked at one another. 

“We must find them,” said Hobson gutturally. 
“They must be somewhere about. . . .” Plunging out 
upon the deck again, they raced toward the main com¬ 
panion-way and headed, as if by instinct, for the half- 
flooded engine-room. 

The vessel lurched sickeningly. 

“She’s sinking . . .” mouthed Nettlefold. “We’ll 
be drowned like rats. . . .” 

“Even so,” said a quiet voice. “Like rats in a trap, 
most excellent electrician.” 

Hobson wheeled round as though lashed with a 
sjambok —the cruel rhinoceros whip of the primitive 
tribesman. 

Facing him, lounging against the open sheet-steel 
doorway of the engine-room, stood the Mandarin . . . 
his cold, impassive face distorted by the hideous mock¬ 
ery of a smile. A smile which—even in that moment 
of acute crisis—instinctively reminded Nettlefold of 
the brooding, sinister Diabutsu at Kamakura. 

“In far Peking,” the Manchu continued, “we make 
an eminently praiseworthy practice of never leaving 
our prisoners unguarded, no matter how secure and in¬ 
vulnerable their bonds may appear to us to be. You 
English people have yet a very great deal to learn. . . . 
Stay—do not attempt to shoot; my own efficient weapon 
already has you covered. Lo!” he half exposed to view 
a small, dark object—evidently a revolver. 

“What do you intend to do with us ?” asked Hobson, 
white to the lips. 

The Chinaman smiled blandly. 

“I shall engage you in pleasant conversation awhile,” 
he murmured. “Then . . . there is a small dry bat- 



THE BREAKING OF THE WEB 


299 


tery of low voltage ... a length of wire . . . and a 
switch . . . just here, ready to my hand. In the Uni¬ 
versity, my dear friends, I studied a little of your 
delectable science. Not too much, for too much knowl¬ 
edge, as one of your revered countrymen has said, is a 
dangerous thing. . . . But just sufficient to enable me 
to contrive this diminutive yet undoubtedly efficient 
little apparatus with commendable speed and efficiency. 
... In the meantime, will you so flatter me as to 
partake of a cigarette?” 

Hobson made one last, desperate effort to regain 
command of his shaken nerves. 

“Where is Leturc ?” 

The Oriental bowed obsequiously, and spread out a 
single, expressive palm for their inspection. 

“The agony of a diseased and distorted mentality is 
not easily to be borne,” he said fluently. “It is greatly 
to be hoped that the praiseworthy Frenchman is by this 
time absorbed into that beatific Nirvana wherein all 
human suffering can have no existence before the radi¬ 
ant Face of the Lord of Light and Power.” 

“You—killed him?” gasped Hobson, almost over¬ 
whelmed by the wave of nausea which swept over him. 

Yen How inclined his head. 

“Even so.” 

His hand moved slightly: the long, tapering fingers 
fumbling against the wall of the engine-room. 

Hobson took a step forward, his cheeks ashen. 

“In God’s name—stop!” he cried. 

The Chinaman smiled faintly. 

“It is conceivable that the serviceable boat which is 
at this moment making its way towards the ill-fated 
vessel in which we have the extreme felicity to converse 
is now preparing to heave-to alongside, in order that 
the venerable personages to whom I have the honour of 
addressing myself may be conveyed therein to another 


300 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


and less precarious abode. It is meet, therefore, that 
I should now depress this small vulcanite button with¬ 
out delay, in order that the voracious denizens of the 
ocean who even now encircle us may be speedily served 
with the largest repast I can reasonably be expected to 
offer them. So !” 

Something clicked audibly in the stillness. 

Hobson covered his face with his hands, and recol¬ 
lected that there was a sweet pale-faced woman in Lon¬ 
don who had, but a short while before he sailed, pre¬ 
sented him with something he treasured more than even 
life itself ... a tiny, baby son. 

“Crack!” 

A spurt of flame seared his eyeballs; his brain rocked; 
something fell against him. 

That was all. . . . 

Raising his head, he gazed dumbly around him— 
vaguely, stupidly aware that the Thing he had antici¬ 
pated had failed to happen! He heard a tumult of 
voices all about him . . . then someone pushed roughly 
past, brushing him unceremoniously on one side. 

Dimly, through a whirling acrid cloud of smoke, he 
perceived that it was the aggressive young Lieutenant. 

“By George,” said this person, stooping over some¬ 
thing that lay huddled at the First Officer’s feet. “By 
George! That was a near go.” 

He looked up into Hobson’s bleak, dazed face. 

“I’ve killed the beggar. I only intended to wing 
him. . . .” He stared at a small, dark object lying 
forlornly beside the inert body of the Chinese. “Why— 
what’s this? Good Lord! A pipe-case! Well, I’m 
damned! . . .” 

The A. B. pushed forward, suddenly dominating the 
situation. 

“I fergot,” he shouted. “Blimey, Sparks, I fergot 
. . . the Chinks tipped that dynamite out of them 


THE BREAKING OF THE WEB 301 

barrels and stowed it loose in the Hold. It’ll be as 
sodden as dough by now!” 

He strode across the motionless form of the Tong 
Chief, and peered into the engine-room. 

“Blimey—there ain’t no bloomin’ switch at all. He 
must-a clicked the door-stop! That’s ‘Chinese Magic’ 
if yer like!” 

For answer, Hobson hid his face in his hands and 
blubbed like a child. 


XXXI 


AT THE GOL.DEN GATE 

In the year 1769, Don Gaspar de Portola, the Gover¬ 
nor of Lower California, discovered the Golden Gate 
and that immense sheet of water extending inland from 
it known to-day to travellers the world over as the Bay 
of San Francisco: on whose placid, gleaming surface 
ships battered and buffeted by the waves of many 
oceans and innumerable seas drop anchor and find rest. 

For here the stately Square-rigger—her canvas 
bleached and her black hull scarred by the winds and 
tides of Cape Horn—may sleep and dream of her tri¬ 
umphs beneath the shade of that crowning amphithea¬ 
tre of hills aback the Bay. The twenty-thousand-ton 
Mail Steamer that has taken the vast Pacific in a single 
stride from the yellow, mudded waters of the Yangtze 
to the enchanted fairyland of Waikiki may moor her¬ 
self once again to the giant piles and capstans of Home; 
and the soot-caked, bilge-foul Tramp may thrill a little 
now and then with righteous, modest pride as her bluff 
bows nose their indomitable way among the hiving 
ferry-boats whose gay-decked passengers regard her 
wonderingly: half in admiration and—who knows?— 
half in awe . . . for, gross though her appearance may 
be, her presence upon those tranquil, sun-bathed waters 
is eloquent testimony to a bravery and heroism of 
which, perhaps, the landsman may know nothing, or 
at least can only vaguely speculate. 

And to this harbourage there came, one cool morning 
almost before the mists had fled before the glittering 
302 


AT THE GOLDEN GATE 


303 


sword of the new-risen sun, a vessel in many ways more 
mighty and more mysterious than them all. A long, 
grey monster on whose dripping decks Death—muzzled 
and in leash—forever cowered in readiness to breathe 
doom and devastation all around! 

Yet, notwithstanding the incredible menace of their 
craft, the two men lounging against for’ard port chain- 
rail, idly smoking cigarettes and peering ever and anon 
towards the, as yet, dim peninsula whereon the City of 
San Francisco reared its myriad roofs imposingly to¬ 
ward the sky, seemed to experience but few, if any, 
feelings of awe at their intimate contact with the awful 
instruments of destruction with which (being on board 
a warship) they were naturally surrounded. On the 
contrary, they appeared, to the casual observer, amaz¬ 
ingly self-satisfied and pleased with their environment; 
for: 

“You know, Howard,” remarked the younger of the 
two, “I really feel almost a pang of regret that our 
experiences together, terrible as they have been, are 
over.” 

Howard Beaumont laughed, a shade wistfully, 
perhaps. 

“Well—not quite over, Monte. We have yet—you 
and I—to weather the most nerve-wracking ‘experi¬ 
ence’ of all! Personally, I would cheerfully face the 
events of the last month or two all over again if, by 
doing so, I could avoid the Marriage Ceremony. Lilian, 
of course, like all girls, young and old, is dead-nuts on 
the Pomp and Circumstance of the business, so to speak. 
Of course I’m exaggerating a little, but you know what 
I mean-” 

Monte Kilgour smiled ruefully. 

“Yes, I know what you mean—even cyclones seem 
puny and shipwrecks cheerful in comparison. But, 



304 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


after all, I suppose the Aftermath is well worth the 
Purgatory, what?” 

“I suppose so,” assented Beaumont, listlessly lighting 
another cigarette. 

Kilgour regarded him askance. 

“Look here, that’s the sixth cigarette since breakfast. 
Remember what our chatty medico said. . . . Your 
innocent little heart is not yet absolutely sans peur, 
you know.” 

Beaumont held a match to the slender white cylinder. 

“My dear Monte, how often have I conjured both 
you and the worthy medicine-man to mind your own 
respective businesses? Confound it all, it’s my heart!” 

Kilgour exhibited consternation. 

“Oh, really? I had an idea that by mutual agree¬ 
ment it had now become Lilian’s property.” He smiled, 
then: “Poor old Howard, I don’t want to hold your 
sacred affections up to ridicule, but, not perhaps un¬ 
naturally, I want you to make a really complete recov¬ 
ery—for her sake as much as your own.” Then, sud¬ 
denly growing grave again: “You know,” he con¬ 
tinued, his eyes vacant with thought, “I can’t get over 
this affair at all. In retrospect, it is just too amazing 
for words. And how—after your terrific experience 
outriding the tornado in that crazy launch of yours— 
you pulled yourself together sufficiently to think of 
extracting a written Confession from Leturc beats me 
absolutely.” 

“It was rather good,” admitted the Administrator 
with mock-modesty. “But—seriously—speaking of the 
manner in which Lilian and I contrived to outride 
the storm in the Kittiwake, I find myself as amazed at 
our escape from death as you are yourself. From what 
Felix Hobson tells me, I gather that when the outer rim 
of the cyclone burst upon the Emperor of Nanking the 
Chinese crew, led by their Captain, rushed the boats 


AT THE GOLDEN GATE 


305 


and, in their hurry to escape from the stricken yacht, 
simply succeeded in bringing their Nemesis upon them¬ 
selves. Every boat launched was immediately over¬ 
turned and swamped, and every coward sailor—officer 
and man—was hurled into the wind-whipped sea. 

“In the Kittiwake , we simply lashed ourselves to the 
bottom beneath the seats. To attempt to bale was a 
physical impossibility, and my one hope of salvation lay 
in the extreme buoyancy of the launch. This, in fact, 
did actually save us. At times she stood almost on end 
as she raced up the side of each mountainous wave— 
then there came the sickening rush, at a prodigious 
speed, down into the succeeding trough. For hours this 
terrifying switchback motion continued. I had lashed 
the tiller to keep her head to the wind, but actually we 
were whirled hither and thither at the insane whim of 
the storm. Time and again, we were totally immersed, 
but with the sea running so swiftly we were literally 
hurled up skyward again ere she had time to founder. 
I have a vague, haunting recollection that, once, we 
overturned . . . but God alone knows whether that 
were true. My own first clear impression, after recov¬ 
ering from the stupor into which I must have fallen, 
was of the bow of the Emperor of Nanking descending 
—like a Titan’s knife—upon us. But just as I pre¬ 
pared, for the thousandth time, to meet my Maker, a 
mighty wave hurled us on its crest high above the 
derelict, and carried us to a comparatively safe dis¬ 
tance from the wreck. 

“Then I released the tiller and let the current carry 
me back towards the ship. I gathered Lilian into my 
arms in readiness to leap aboard her should the oppor¬ 
tunity occur—and it did. I had miscalculated the speed 
of the current and, almost before I could grasp what 
had happened, the Kittiwake smashed her bows against 
the steel plates of the yacht. But, by an amazing piece 


306 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


of good fortune, we happened to be riding on the crest 
of a huge comber, and, even as my launch broke her 
back, I leapt for the deck beneath us. . . 

Beaumont laughed grimly. 

“Yes, I can assure you it was fairly Terrific.’ . . . 
And now what were you saying about Leturc? Oh, I 
remember—the Confession. Well, I’ve only one regret 
about Monsieur Leturc, and that is that Yen How dis¬ 
posed of the devil himself, and so prevented us from 
bringing him to justice.” 

Kilgour nodded. 

“To think that he was the murderer of my father, 
after all!” 

“- and that poor Hardie imagined himself to be 

the criminal,” supplemented Beaumont. 

“Hardie,” cried the younger man passionately, “was 
a coward—a miserable coward! To save his own craven 
body, he was prepared to sacrifice Yanda to a fiend. 
And yet—how Fate paid him back in his own base 
coinage! What an ironic Jest it conceived when it 
prompted the innocent, God-fearing Missionary Au¬ 
thorities for whom he laboured to depute him to Char- 
teris—the very island on which his life’s mistake had 
been committed! Why could not he have admitted 
frankly at the outset that he and Jacques Leturc were 
co-partners with my father in his disastrous Ex¬ 
pedition ?” 

“Because,” said Beaumont quietly, “Hardie believed 
that in trying to steal the treasure-map from your 
father the blow he dealt him had killed him. You must 
remember that Hardie imagined himself to be the only 
member of the crew who had contrived to escape from 
the natives. He was unaware that Leturc, also, had 
somehow managed to conceal himself in the under¬ 
growth. Therefore, when the Frenchman re-appeared 
—from the grave, as it were—some thirty years later, 



AT THE GOLDEN GATE 


307 


and accused him of the murder he had himself com¬ 
mitted, Hardie had no possible means of disproving the 
accusation. And we now know that Leturc used the 
threat of exposure when he endeavoured to gain from 
the Pastor Vanda’s hand in a marriage that was, lit- 
erallv, nothing less than a convenient way of obtaining 
her for Yen How.” 

“The double-dyed blackguard!” rasped Kilgour. 

Beaumont nodded. 

“All that, and more. To me, as one more than a 
little interested in criminal psychology, the most sur¬ 
prising thing of all is how that solitary, almost ridic¬ 
ulous indiscretion on the Frenchman’s part that very 
first night at the parsonage aroused my suspicions as 
to his purpose in coming out to Charteris, and 
prompted me to set poor Lee Wong to spy upon him 
and trap him into revealing the nature of his errand. 
Invariably, though, one finds that no matter how astute, 
how careful in its attention to detail the brain of a 
criminal may be, there is always some paltry oversight 
or other to open up the way to a clue.” 

“To me” said Kilgour, “the revelations of Ra, in 
contemplation, are simply astounding. He, actually, 
was instrumental in confirming every suspicion—both 
yours and mine. And he it was who finally so wrought 
upon Leturc’s diseased mentality that he endeavoured 
to shoot him. What was the secret of Ra . . . and by 
what means did that mysterious Pool come to be upon 
Charteris ?” 

Beaumont’s face saddened. 

“No man can answer that question, Monte. The 
Pacific keeps its mysteries, and perhaps, after all, it is 
as well for our peace of mind that it does so. Be that 
as it may, Ra, his Fiery Pool, and the Radium wealth 
of my lovely little island have now passed beyond the 
sight and knowledge of man forever. Through the 




308 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


blinding rage of the Tempest, God occasionally speaks 
. . . and the kingdoms of the earth, great and small, 
pass away. . . .” 

Kilgour bowed his head in mute appreciation of the 
truth the other spoke. Then: 

“And yet,” he said quietly, almost reverently, “even 
God is sometimes most wonderfully kind. Out of death, 
chaos and destruction He brought back to life old 
Andrew MacWhirter’s son—the boy who had been lost 
to him—dead to him—for over twenty years. That 
was a miracle , if you like!” 

“Yes,” agreed Beaumont, “the most extraordinary 
evidence of the existence of an active and beneficent 
Providence I have ever known! Poor old MacWhirter 
—he, at least, has cause to bless the Fates we, on our 
part, were perforce compelled to curse!” 

He broke off sharply, and: 

“Hullo—there’s a launch coming out to us. Do you 
see? Pressmen, or Naval Officers, I expect. I guess 
I’ll go below and supervise my packing. Poor Lee Wong 
used to relieve my mind of all such mundane matters in 
the past. I expect they’ll be taking us ashore very soon 
—she’s hardly under way at all now.” 

“Stop!” cried Kilgour. “Who is that man stand¬ 
ing in the bow? The fellow in the fur overcoat and 
Homburg?” 

“How should I know?” snapped Beaumont. “I am 
not as gifted as Ra. Perhaps I ought to have men¬ 
tioned the fact. . . .” 

So close to the warship was the little, heaving craft 
now, that even as the other replied, Kilgour perceived 
that the man standing upright in its sharp bow was 
rendered even more conspicuous by reason of a white 
bandage bound tightly across his forehead, beneath 
the sloped brim of the Homburg hat. 

Gliding gently over the scarcely rippling waves, and 


AT THE GOLDEN GATE 


309 


with her powerful petrol-motor droning in a manner 
oddly reminiscent of the little Kittiwake, the launch 
pursued her arrow-like course to the side of the war¬ 
ship—manoeuvring towards a suitable mooring place 
against the forbidding, grey wall that was the cruiser 
Republic's hull. 

And even as the tiny boat slipped her w^ay immedi¬ 
ately beneath the chain-railing over which he craned 
his neck in an effort to perceive her occupants the more 
easily—a great shout broke from Monte Kilgour’s lips, 
as the features of the bandaged man swam clear from 
the ever-moving white-capped maze of uniformed men 
surrounding him, and: 

“Good God,” he cried, “it’s Gerald Randall!” 



XXXII 


DENOUEMENT 

“I thought,” said Monte Kilgour, “that you were in 
Europe on a ‘joy trip.’ And what in thunder has hap¬ 
pened to your head—have you produced cmother sabre- 
cut to mystify us?” 

Randall, tall, grey-haired and immaculate as ever 
save for the aggressive surgical bandage swathing his 
injured scalp, chuckled. 

“Think again,” he retorted. Then, deftly removing 
his heavy overcoat and shaking it free of the film of 
spray which glistened like hoar-frost upon the nap: 
“Now that I am here—won’t you introduce me?” he 
queried suavely, adding: “I’ll tell you about my ‘head’ 
later—though I may mention that your guess was not 
wholly inaccurate.” 

Kilgour turned excitedly to Beaumont, who, hands in 
pockets, had laconically witnessed this singular meeting 
of the two friends, so widely differing in years and yet 
apparently treating each other in every way as equals. 

“Howard—permit me. Mr. Gerald Randall, at men¬ 
tion of whose name the whole financial world trembles 
and is afraid—perhaps.” 

“I have heard of you,” smiled Randall, his features 
crinkling into that oddly Puckish expression Kilgour 
knew so well. “The South Sea Hero and so on, what? 
Ah, me! A truly astonishing affair, this wireless busi¬ 
ness—half the female population of the continent is at 
your feet, sir. Monte, you must immortalize the gentle- 
310 


DENOUEMENT 311 

man in a new and original novel warranted to contain 
neither a T)ope-cache nor a Murder. . . .” 

Kilgour’s face darkened. 

“Speaking of murders, Gerald,” he said sharply, “I 
may now tell you the nature of the mystery which—as I 
informed you on that memorable night in New York 
when Vanda resolved to return to Charteris—had over¬ 
shadowed my life since earliest childhood. You may be 
surprised to learn that my father, whom I have fre¬ 
quently told you died in a very mysterious manner when 
I was but a baby in arms, was murdered on Charteris 
Island by a Frenchman named-” 

“I know exactly what you’re going to say,” inter¬ 
rupted Randall, almost testily; “but please do not 
trouble yourself further. I know all about it. . . .” 

An ejaculation of incredulity—almost of anger— 
broke from Kilgour’s lips. Beaumont removed his 
cigarette: permitting it to expire unnoticed between his 
fingers. Then: 

“And-what-do-«/o?^-know about it?” rapped Kilgour. 

Randall patted his bandaged forehead maternally. 

“Everything,” he responded cheerfully. “You see, 
I happen to he your father /” 






XXXIII 


THE MAN FROM THE DEAD 

Monte Kiegour —novelist, dramatist and altogether 
very bewildered individual—lounged away from the 
window of the luxurious down-town Hotel wherein 
Gerald Randall had reserved the most elaborate suite 
obtainable, and, advancing to where his newly-resur¬ 
rected parent was engaged in conversation with Lilian, 
Vanda and Mrs. Hardie—the latter but slowly recover¬ 
ing from the recent tragedy at Charteris—addressed 
the group. 

“See here,” he said quietly, “don’t you all think it 
would be better if he told us the story right now? This 
suspense is most unnerving.” 

“Certainly,” agreed Lilian. Then, with an access of 
girlish mischief as surprising as it was alien to her 
ordinarily rather staid demeanour: “That reminds me,” 
she added, “I do not believe one of you has yet deigned 
to congratulate me upon my shrewdness in being the 
first to notice the resemblance between Monte and Uncle 
Gerald!” 

Vanda looked up swiftly. 

“It’s all so extraordinary,” she said breathlessly, 
“that I—I can hardly realize it yet. Yes, Lilian, it 
was wonderful the way you detected the resemblance 
almost as soon as you met Monte. Though I can see 
it clearly myself now, at the time I thought you were 
dreaming. Do tell us all, Uncle!” 

And Randall, touched by the eloquent pleading of her 
312 


THE MAN FROM THE DEAD 313 

voice, knocked the ash from his inevitable cigar, and 
complied. 

“Well, in reality, it is a very simple story—very 
simple indeed.” He glanced from one to the other of 
their tense, eager faces, and: “Now, in the past,” he con¬ 
tinued, smiling, “you have all, at one time or another, 
evinced curiosity concerning the scar which has—ever 
since you have known me—disfigured my right temple. 
Always, I have been compelled to assure you that I 
had no knowledge whatever as to how I came by it. 
And my assurances were perfectly true. I was as ig¬ 
norant of its origin as you were.” 

The speaker paused dramatically, then: 

“I am now able to inform you, and it is a painful 
duty to me, that that scar is the result of a blow dealt 
me on Charteris Island by—Robert Hardie. To under¬ 
stand fully my connection with the affair, I must tell 
you that I was the son of humble Seattle seafaring folk, 
and early in my teens, pursuing the same hazardous 
vocation as my father and his father before him, I 
obeyed the call of the mighty deep and went down to it 
in ships. One evening, late in my twenties, I—by this 
time a Master, for I had done uncommonly well in my 
chosen calling—chanced to enter a common drinking- 
house—a vicious night-haunt—along the old, notorious 
Barbary Coast of San Francisco; and there, for an old 
song, I purchased from a drunken seaman a Chart pur¬ 
porting to indicate the exact location of a certain 
native Treasure Hoard buried or concealed on Charteris 
Island. 

“Being of an adventurous turn of mind, and having 
amassed from my trade a small amount of capital, I 
advertised for a mate and a crew and determined to 
set out for Charteris in an endeavour to discover the 
whereabouts of the Hoard. This, of course, necessi¬ 
tated my leaving behind me in Seattle my young wife, 


314 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


who, hitherto, had accompanied me on the various 
shorter voyages I had made since my marriage. But a 
sailor’s wife has to accustom herself to those weary 
periods of waiting which must, inevitably, be her lot— 
so I swallowed my scruples, and embarked. 

“In answer to my advertisement, there had come to 
me two young men—one an American by birth, though 
of British extraction; and the other a Frenchman. 
Their names, as you will have guessed, were respectively 
Robert Hardie and Jacques Leturc. 

“Both, like myself, were young and—who knows?— 
foolish. I installed them as my seconds upon my little 
sloop, the Albatross , and together with our crew— 
picked, for the most part, from the Barbary doss-houses 
—we set sail for Charteris. 

“And, in due course, we arrived there, anchored in 
the lagoon and landed on the island. In a thoughtless 
moment, I questioned the natives concerning the jewel 
Hoard and, beyond gleaning the fact that it was con¬ 
cealed in a cavern apparently illuminated by green 
fire—superstitious nonsense, I supposed—succeeded in 
achieving nothing further than bringing down the wrath 
of the tribe upon our heads. 

“There was a skirmish. The Polynesians were fifty 
to one, and my crew—with the exception of Robert 
Hardie and Jacques Leturc—were utterly wiped out of 
existence! I fled for safety into the interior of the 
island: was pursued, attacked, severely injured and left 
to die . . . whilst the brown men returned to the shore, 
paddled out in their proas to my sloop, weighed her 
anchor and let her drift out to sea! 

“In the meantime, Hardie, imagining me to be dead, 
emerged from the undergrowth in which he—like myself 
—had been hiding, and essayed to secure my Chart of 
the Treasure Hoard. I resisted with what little 


THE MAN FROM THE DEAD 


315 


strength remained to me, and, overcome, I suppose, by 
fear, he struck me senseless and fled. . . . 

“That was the first attempt made upon my life by the 
men who had sworn at the commencement of our voyage 
to serve me loyally and faithfully—though I do Hardie 
the justice to say that I am convinced that he had no 
intention whatever of killing me. Nor, as a matter of 
fact, had I at the moment any intention of being killed. 
Then Leturc, who, I imagine, had climbed a small 
tamarind tree in order to escape the wrath of the in¬ 
censed natives, perceiving that Hardie had failed to 
obtain possession of my Chart, resolved to make an 
attempt to secure it for himself. Also, he resolved to 
take no chances, and to that end plunged his short 
dagger-knife into my breast!” 

“But how on earth-” ejaculated Monte Kilgour. 

Randall held up his hand. 

“One moment, please. It would seem that I must 
have borne a charmed life, for, though I was, of course, 
far too weak to resist a second time, that dagger, in¬ 
stead of hurling me forthwith into Eternity, merely 
buried itself in a large, silver-backed Pocket Bible pre¬ 
sented to me by my mother—an intensely religious wo¬ 
man—on my fourteenth birthday. This Bible I always 
carried with me in my vest pocket, and to it I owe my 
life. For Leturc, in his insane haste to secure the 
Chart, did not wait to ascertain the result of his act, 
left the dagger, as he thought, buried in my body and 
made off into the forest. . . . 

“And a few moments later I, having relapsed merci¬ 
fully into unconsciousness, was borne away by unseen 
hands to a cavern concealed somewhere in the hills. 
Here—dimly—I recollect a strange, almost terrifying 
creature—half ape, half man—who ministered to my 
needs, attended to my wounds, and, occasionally, sat 
long hours at my side muttering a strange jargon I 



316 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


could not understand. I also, very vaguely, seem to 
recall that this cavern actually was illuminated in some 
odd, supernatural way by a green, phosphorescent 
light-” 

“Ra!” exclaimed Kilgour. “Then it was Ra who 
nursed you back to health again! No wonder he could 
read the Past in his infernal green lake. . . . He must 
have witnessed the whole affair—and led Leturc to be¬ 
lieve you were dead deliberately!” 

Randall shook his head. 

“I am afraid I do not understand you, Monte; but 
you can explain later. For the present, please permit 
me to conclude my story without interruption.” 

“Sorry,” murmured Kilgour contritely, “but the 
whole thing is too darned amazing for words. . . .” 

Randall continued monotonously, as though he were 
reading the narrative from a book or printed sheet: 

“Eventually, something must have happened to me. 
What, I cannot tell. Either, in some way, my brain— 
or at least a portion of it—must have been affected, or” 
—with a smile—“this extraordinary Being cast some 
occult spell—weaved some macabre Black Magic about 
me; for I remembered nothing further until I found 
myself in the humble abode of one, John Randall, a 
South Sea Captain and Trader who hailed from Boston. 
And further, I found, when I came to myself in that tiny 
Boston home, that I had absolutely no knowledge of my 
identity: could offer no single explanation as to whom 
and what I was to any living soul. Randall was kind¬ 
ness itself, but he either could or would not throw any 
light upon the terrible Enigma which had swallowed up 
my past as though it had never existed. At the time, 
he led me to believe that he had rescued me from an 
abandoned schooner, flying the Yellow ‘L’ Flag of 
Plague, which he had encountered whilst returning from 
a voyage to Tahiti. But I knew in my heart of hearts 



THE MAN FROM THE DEAD 317 

that the story was a lie, and even his assurance that I 
had suffered a severe shock which had affected my 
memory only further served to convince me that there 
was some ghastly, unfathomable mystery overshadowing 
me, and that I was utterly powerless to get to the 
bottom of it or, for that matter, prove the old Captain’s 
statements false. 

“You will readily imagine, then, that my position 
soon became intolerable to me, and the very hospitality 
of the Trader and his wife a perpetual thorn in my 
flesh. So, one day, I bade ‘Farewell 5 to the old couple, 
thanked them for all that they had done for me, and 
set out for New York—resolved to commence my shat¬ 
tered life afresh, and endeavour, if possible, to forget 
the awful, unspeakable Secret I must for ever carry in 
my heart: the knowledge that one half of my per¬ 
sonality had died a death more actual than any physi¬ 
cal expiration! 

“And in New York, Fate played into my hands—as 
though desirous, in a measure, of atoning for the great 
wrong it had done me. I secured a menial position with 
a well-known firm of brokers, plunged heart and soul 
into a business career, and in twenty years 5 time, be¬ 
came one of the wealthiest men in that incredibly 
wealthy city. 

“Twice—mark this well—I was on the verge of con¬ 
tracting a marriage, and on each occasion, almost at 
the eleventh hour as it were, Something took place to 
prevent that marriage! . . . As though by some inex¬ 
plicable, psychic influence, I was warned, before the 
ceremony took place, not to do this thing. 

“And almost fifteen years ago, on the occasion of 
my second attempt at matrimony, I met and became 
friendly with a man I soon grew to love and respect as 
though he were of my own flesh and blood. That man 
was—Mrs. Hardie’s only brother, Rex Willard. 



318 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


“We two became, as she will herself tell you, insepa¬ 
rable companions. He was an artist of repute and, my 
own tastes having, as I grew older and was consequently 
enabled to indulge them, trended more and more toward 
the cultured and scholastic, we were—I have no hesita¬ 
tion in saying—at heart wholly one. 

“Less than three years after our first meeting, he 
developed an incurable disease and, almost before I or 
any of his many friends realized the fact, was 
gone-” 

The speaker’s voice broke; then, recovering himself 
with an effort, he continued: 

“On his death-bed, he asked me, hesitating even to 
put my affection for him to this most trivial test, to do 
what I could for his little sister, who had for many 
years been married to a Missionary and was the mother 
of two children—one, Vanda, a child of but a few 
slender years. 

“Well, I firmly resolved to live up to that request, 
and how far I succeeded—or failed—I must leave 
others, more competent than I, to judge. This I may 
add: it was only after I had made her very existence 
intolerable by the pressure of my request that Mrs. 
Hardie consented to entrust Lilian and, later, Vanda 
to my care.” The monotonous voice grew suddenly 
bleak: “My God, can you conceive how useless an exist¬ 
ence a man rolling in solitary, unshared wealth can live ? 
It was pleasure—sheer, unadulterated pleasure—for me 
to rid myself of a trifle of my riches in order to educate 
these two children and give them the start in life their 
souls and their brains deserved!” 

He laughed slightly. 

“And now comes the unbelievable climax to this im¬ 
possible narrative. Very shortly, but a few days in 
fact, after Vanda and Monte—my own son, remember— 
set sail on their liner for Charteris with the Merwins, I 



THE MAN FROM THE DEAD 


319 


received an urgent business call to Buffalo—just at the 
moment when I was putting my affairs in order to start 
on a vacation trip to Europe. 

“You were surprised at the sight of my bandaged 
scalp. Monte jocosely, and with that consummate tact 
for which he is justly celebrated, asked me whether I had 
received another ‘sabre-cut’! Well, now hear the rea¬ 
son for that adornment. Scarcely had I vacated the 
Depot in Buffalo ere I was struck by a passing auto¬ 
mobile and knocked senseless on the sidewalk! I was 
conveyed immediately to Hospital, whence I only 
emerged a week or two ago. It was discovered that I 
had received severe concussion and, I am told, my life 
was for many days despaired of. 

“Eventually—true to my record of cheating old 
Ferryman Charon of his passenger—I survived the 
crisis: consciousness returned and—with it —the age- 
dead 'personality of Elmer Kilgour!” 

‘Randall’ laughed, and helped himself to a cigar. 
Then, raising a hand to his head, removed the white 
bandage—revealing a jagged gash, glimpsed through 
the net-plaster, traversing his forehead . . . whilst, 
showing faintly leprous-white against the tan of the 
surrounding flesh, they beheld on the right temple that 
same unmistakable scar which had so frequently in the 
past provoked them all to comment. 

“Oh, yes,” he said, in answer to Vanda’s eager query, 
“I returned to New York immediately. Arrived there, 
I consulted—more for the humour of the thing than 
anything else—three grave and learned physicians. 
Total Mental Amnesia one called it. . . . And I have 
entirely forgotten what the other two said—except that 
I have a hazy notion that they purpose writing a joint 
Treatise on my revered cranium. 

“Afterwards? Afterwards I forgot the ‘humour’ of 




320 


THE FOREST OF FEAR 


the thing and headed for Seattle in the hope of tracing 
my dear wife—your mother, Monte—if she were still 
alive. Rut, here again, Fate had taken his toll. I dis¬ 
covered that shortly after my sailing for Charteris she 
had died whilst giving birth to my infant son. I made 
inquiries, instituted an exhaustive search, for that son. 
It . . .” another throttled laugh, with a hint of some¬ 
thing stifled and primitive in it: “It was something of 
a shock to me to learn that I had been hob-nobbing with 
my son for two or three years: that he had grown to be 
one of my most intimate friends amongst the young men 
of my acquaintance: that we were, in fact, members of 
the same Club in New York City—and, lastly, that that 
same son was betrothed to little Vanda Hardie. . . . 
Yes, something of a shock. . . .” 

Monte Kilgour clenched his hands at the sound of 
that odd, primitive emotion trembling in the grey-haired 
financier’s usually emotionless voice. 

Then: 

“Vanda, my dear,” chuckled the old, irrepressible 
‘Randal’ striving to reassert itself in this new and com¬ 
plex personality to which it was so total a stranger, 
“Vanda—you wanted to see a little more of life, didn’t 
you, before you settled down to make a home for my 
boy? Tell me, are you satisfied?” 















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